


Scarlet Cross

by wreckofherheart



Series: hold this rope and i'll pull you in [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>[AU: Second World War] </i> </p><p>Angie and Peggy meet under the most inconvenient and harmful circumstances.<br/>Yet, somehow, this only brings to light something they did not foresee. </p><p>  <i>[Peggy/Angie]</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Apparently I couldn't hold back for long.  
> If you enjoy the first chapter, I'll go ahead and work on finishing this story. Do not hesitate to send me any form of feedback; all comments are read, I promise.  
> Things are _kind of_ the same for Peggy and Angie, but there are major influences in their lives which are not mentioned in the _Agent Carter_ series. I hope you like it. :)

Winter.  1943.

 

 

 

     This time, he makes her bleed.

     Accidental. Of course. _He doesn’t mean it_. It is one o’clock in the morning, and he returns home drunk. The door opens, and he lets in the cold. Snow scatters into the front porch, and he yells her name. A bottle of alcohol, half full, is in his grasp while he hurries up the staircase, yelling her name again. He stumbles on the top step, and slams his palm into the wall to catch his balance.

     When he finds her, he’ll place a baseball bat and a belt onto the table.

     Then, he will look at her, dead in the eye, and make her choose.

     It’s the cigarettes which hurt most.

     She hears him enter her bedroom, the one she used to share with her younger brother before he was sent off to fight. She has always been Daddy’s favourite, though. He’s always liked hugging her, kissing her, and beating her whenever she or anybody else wounds his pride. 

     Immediately he throws back the sheets on her bed, expecting her to be hidden. He growls in fury to find the bed empty. Next, he looks behind the curtain, calls out her name again, and then finally turns to the wardrobe.

     She gasps in horror when he yanks open the doors.

     Wearing a twisted scowl, he drags her out by the scruff of her collar and shoves her up against the wall. He shouts again, louder, and the bottle of alcohol smashes when it hits her face. 

     Blood drips to the wooden floor. 

     It’s the shock, not so much the pain, which causes her to cry.

 

 

     A customer asks. 

     No one asks about the bruises, scars and burns. Mostly because she always finds ways to hide them––she’s good at that. Probably the only thing she’s good at, she thinks. Hell, no one notices her single talent anyway. That audition last Tuesday was her last. There’s simply no money in theatre.

     The customer is a female officer. She has visited the L&L Automat occasionally, and their chats have always been pleasant, hanging––a little lonely. The female officer is good company. She appears collected, efficient, _smart_. She can handle large groups of men, _soldiers_ , and doesn’t bat an eye at any sort of threat. It’s what makes her scary, and yet she’s one of the nicest people she’s ever met.

     Four days ago, a bottle of alcohol was smashed across Angie’s face.

     And the officer knows abuse when she sees it.

     At first, she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes linger on her plastered cheek, before smoothly averting her gaze to the menu. As always, she orders a tea: Earl Grey with a slice of lemon. 

     ‘Have you been well?’ The female officer asks.

      ‘Sure. What about yourself?’

     Lie. The female officer’s expression doesn’t change. ‘All right.’ She twitches a smile, eyes on hers. ‘By the way, you never told me about your audition last week. My fault. I apologise I’ve not been present as much as I’d like to be.’ It’s obvious why. The war continues, and this soldier’s assistance is needed now more than ever. Even though Angie is aware of this, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t missed this near-stranger. Yet, she still doesn’t know her name.

     At the mention of her audition, which feels so far away now, Angie feels her wounded face singe. This morning she had left Daddy on the settee, hungover. He had cried pathetically in the early hours, telling her sorry, oh how damn sorry he is that he is such a _fuckin’ mess_. 

     It’s easy to perform when she’s not being assessed.

     She smiles at the female officer, pretending she’s pleased she’s asked. That she’s taken an interest. _That she has remembered_. ‘It’s all right––I’ll let you off! It, uh...’ Angie inhales, ‘... didn’t really go so well.’ The female officer raises a brow. ‘Dumb really. The journey there took me over five hours.’ She laughs meekly. ‘All of that for nothin’.’ At least when she came home that night, Daddy had prepared dinner. Cold, but it was still dinner, and he was still sober.

     ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

     ‘Thanks.’ Angie hesitates, and then asks, ‘Hey, I know it’s a bit after the fact, but what’s your name?’

     Apparently the female officer is surprised they haven’t introduced themselves. ‘Oh! I’m Margaret Carter––you can call me Peggy.'

     ‘I really like your accent.’

     Peggy chuckles. ‘Yes. I get that a lot.’

     Nearby a businessman of some sort calls for Angie’s assistance. He wants more coffee, and he’s incredibly insistent about it. She excuses herself, albeit reluctantly, and pours the gentleman his refill. 

     When she returns, Peggy is idly stirring her tea. Angie grabs a mug and saucer for another customer, pours their drink, and after they’ve taken a seat, Peggy speaks. ‘Are you _certain_ you’re all right?’ Bizarrely, it feels intrusive, but before Angie can respond, Peggy adds, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve––’ She stops. Peggy ceases stirring her drink, and there’s a temporarily pause. 

     In a way, Angie hopes she’ll point out her wounded face.

     In a way, Angie hopes Peggy will turn a blind eye, like everybody else.

     In a way, Angie really doesn’t know what she wants.

     ‘––Sorry.’ Peggy stands. ‘I’ve just remembered I have to be elsewhere.’ She leaves a tip. ‘Take care.’

     It happens so fast Angie doesn’t have time to react appropriately. She’s stunned as Peggy turns on her heel, and leaves the Automat, disappearing into the snowy weather. Her tea is untouched, and the tip blows off the counter when the door slams shut. Cheek burning, Angie returns to work.

     Distracted, pained, disappointed. 

 

 

 

     Several weeks pass. The next time she meets Margaret Carter isn’t in the L&L Automat. In fact, it’s in a bar, which stinks of booze, sweat and sex. Angie has only been here six times in her life––this is Daddy’s favourite place to drink. He likes the booze, he likes his mates, and he likes the girls. They want cash, and then they will rub up against him, dance for him, do whatever he wants.

     Angie is twenty-three. And the men notice her. 

     She’s wearing her work uniform, and men like it when a girl covers up–– _because she must be teasing them_. As she enters the bar, a man hoots at her, but she’s so used to this sort of behaviour, she doesn’t hear him.

     It’s not words which frighten her.

     Daddy is by the bar, laughing and drunk, and there are two men, his age, next to him. She has come to make sure he gets home okay, because no one else will do it. She has to make sure he’s safe, that he’s all right–– _because he’s all she’s got, and she’s all he’s got_. 

     To her surprise, Daddy spots her and enthusiastically gestures her to join them. 

     She doesn’t quite understand why.

     ‘Ah, here she is!’ He pulls her close, protective. ‘My baby angel. She’s startin’ to look just like her Mama, she is.’ One of the men throws a comment, which is apparently hilarious, because Daddy is laughing again. Angie didn’t come here to be decoration. She pulls at Daddy’s sleeve.  

     ‘It’s past midnight––’ she states, but her voice is drowned out by loud cursing. 

     ‘I know, I know,’ Daddy replies. He puts his pint down onto the bar. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

     ‘You gotta be at work tomorrow.’ 

     ‘Ah, fuck.’ He chortles. ‘Darlin’, they fired me.’ 

     ‘About time too,’ one of his friends say.

     Her hand has fallen from his sleeve, and she stares at him, mouth agape. Daddy is unemployed. _Christ_. How are they going to pay the rent? Their landlord is already angry at them for not paying the last three months. _Oh, Christ_. Angie’s salary alone cannot cover the expenses! 

     Daddy sighs at her, a sad sigh. ‘Look at ya.’ He grazes the back of his hand across her plastered cheek. ‘Look what I do to ya.’ 

     ‘You know where good money is now, right?’

     ‘Won’t take much, darlin’. Just give us a little twirl. Maybe loosen that skirt o’ yours––wallets might _pop_ open then. Just watch the cash pour out.’

     Daddy is suddenly angry. ‘Hey, Jonny, you wanna fuck off?’

     ‘What? Hey. Take it easy. I know plenty of girls who do that sort of stuff. They’re nice, y’know? No shame in givin’ some to earn some––’

     ‘Oi, I said “fuck off”, yeah?' 

     ‘Pretty gal like you don’t need to starve.’

     There is too much happening around her. A man vomits a metre away, causing his friends to burst out laughing. A woman is grabbed by a soldier a table from her. The barman is being yelled at by a drunken idiot. And two men are grinning down at her, nothing but pure lust in their eyes.

     The bar smells. Daddy is getting upset, and she knows what happens when he gets upset. He finishes his pint, a mistake, and wipes his mouth.

     If she forces him out, he’ll hurt her.

     If she leaves him, he’ll hurt the two men and create havoc.

     Before she can escape, however, one of the men grabs her wrist. ‘Hey, where d’you think you’re goin’? Gonna leave poor Papa alone with us _monsters_?’  

     ‘Get off me!’ Angie yanks herself out of his grip. 

     ‘Hey, baby, don’t be like that––’ 

     She spits in his face.

     One of the men yells out; another laughs. Daddy does nothing. He stares, immobilised; he’s too drunk to move. 

     ‘You dirty, little whore. Better teach you a few _manners_.’ Angie gasps when he grabs her collar. His face is up against hers, and he looks venomous. ‘Best say good bye to your Papa, ‘cos he won’t be the only one waking up sore––’

     ‘Excuse me.’

     The man blinks in puzzlement at the sound of a woman’s voice behind him.

     His grip on Angie loosens, and he slowly turns around.

     Peggy is much smaller than the men. She even has to crane back her neck to look at this man. Angie widens her eyes at the sight of her, and doesn’t know what to think. How is she here? _Why_ is she here? Why is her face bruised? And why, _why_ , does she look so _fearless_?   

     It’s as if all the men in the bar know who she is. _What_ she is. The soldiers present have stopped drinking, and they have turned to watch the scene.

     ‘You are being awfully rude to my friend.’

     ‘What the fuck d’you want with me?’

     ‘Oh, not much, believe me. However.’ Peggy whams her fist into his nose, and he falls to the floor unconscious. She peers over her shoulder to two soldiers. ‘Gentlemen, please get rid of this unnecessary waste.’ The soldiers are suddenly sober. They click their ankles in acknowledgement of her rank, and hoist the unconscious man by his arms and literally throw him out of the door.

     In a matter of seconds, chatter returns to the bar, although more civilised than before. Angie is still staring at Peggy with her mouth agape, but apparently the female officer is not finished yet. She faces Angie’s other offender.

     ‘Unless you’d like to join your delightful friend, I suggest you move aside.’ He obeys at once. Finally, Peggy is able to pay her full attention on Angie. ‘Did he hurt you?’ 

     ‘N––No.’ Angie swallows, and comes closer, lowering her voice as if their discussion must be one big secret. ‘How did you do that?’ 

     ‘Do what?’ 

     ‘Well... y’know, sock him one?’

     Peggy narrows her brows. She’s amused. ‘Unfortunately, it is something I do often. Men just need to learn how to behave. Some men only respond to violence. And I aim to please.’ She looks at Angie’s father who is now slobbering over the bar, completely out of it. ‘Oh, dear.’

     Angie blushes heavily. ‘Oh, Christ! I am sorry.’ She hurries over to her father, and pulls him by his arm. He groans, and drapes an arm around her shoulders. ‘I need to take him back home.’

     ‘By yourself?’

     ‘Yeah, I’ve done it before––’ 

     ‘ _Before_? Wait, wait. I can’t let you go out into that abysmal weather.’ Peggy places a hand on Angie’s shoulder, stopping her. She faces another soldier, who’s drinking alone. ‘Featherstone!’ He responds to her call, and is in front of her so fast, Angie is left with her mouth hanging open again.

     No one obeys a lady like that.

     No one _listens_ to a lady, for starters.

     Who _is_ Peggy Carter?  

     ‘Take this man home, and make sure he’s safely tucked in bed. Angie––’ She softens her voice, ‘––would you mind? This nice, young man will take your father home. Is that all right?’ 

     ‘Uh, y––yeah, I guess.’

     ‘Excellent.’ The soldier steps past Peggy and manages to make Angie’s father lean most of his weight on him. Angie passes the soldier the key to her front door. ‘He’ll need to know where you live.’

     Angie tells him.

     As the soldier is about to leave with her father, she suddenly says, ‘Give him milk.’ The soldier looks at her in puzzlement. ‘He likes milk before he goes to sleep. Milk helps with the hangover.’

     The soldier glances at Peggy, who simply nods.

     ‘Very well,’ he replies, and the two of them hobble out of the bar. 

     ‘Your cheek is bleeding.’

     Angie doesn’t realise Peggy is speaking to her, until the older woman’s hand touches her wounded face. Angie jumps back in surprise. She laughs nervously. ‘My cheek is _what_ ––?’ 

     ‘Bleeding.’ Peggy isn’t laughing. ‘Come on. Let us go somewhere quiet.’

 

 

 

     Quiet is a hotel room, with a radiator, double bed and an en suite bathroom. Angie has never seen anything like it. She thought only posh, rich people were able to stay in places like these. Unless Peggy _is_ one of those posh, rich people. She’s certainly posh! That accent is unheard of.

     Peggy flicks on the light when they enter, and informs Angie to sit on the edge of the bed. Angie is in awe at the room, though, and doesn’t move. Her bag falls from her hand, and she blinks. ‘Whoa.’ Peggy has gone into the en suite bathroom to collect something, and so Angie tries to shake out of her stupor and obey the woman’s command. Just like her men do.

     There’s a mirror in front of her when she sits down. Angie, without really thinking, tries to neaten her hair, fix her scruffy uniform, and that’s when she notices her bloody plaster. The blood has oozed through and is now trickling down her cheek. That idiot must have reopened her wound!

     Angie curses under her breath. 

     ‘You have quite a nasty cut.’ Peggy appears in front of her, blocking the view of the mirror. There is a small of box of medical supplies in her hand. She kneels in front of Angie, and leans towards her. ‘Are you okay with me removing your plaster? You need a fresh one anyway.’

     ‘No, go ahead.’ 

     Admittedly Angie feels _very_ self conscious. In this light, Peggy looks beautiful.

     She’s seen a lot of beautiful female officers. They’re so alluring, so gorgeous in their uniforms, but they’re so rare to come by as well. 

     In _any_ light, Angie decides, Miss Carter looks beautiful.  

     Just, now that she knows this woman can kick butt, Angie almost feels intimidated. Those men were big, giant, and scary. And Peggy knocked one of them out without having to try. She exhales slowly when Peggy’s fingers gently peel away at the plaster. The older woman frowns at the sight.  

     ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she mutters. ‘This may hurt a little.’ 

     ‘It’s fine. Just, y’know, do your thing.’

     The next few minutes, both women are silent. Peggy is right: when she washes Angie’s wound, it does sting, and the stuff she uses smells funny. Angie winces, and her eye starts to water from the pain. ‘Okay. Nearly done,’ Peggy whispers. ‘I’m relieved you didn’t catch an infection. This wound must have been deep.’

     ‘Yeah, it was,’ Angie breathes.  

     ‘I should have said something.’ 

     ‘Huh?’ 

     ‘Before.’ Peggy clears away the bloody cotton wool balls. ‘At the diner.’ She looks at Angie, and her eyes are soft and warm. ‘Be honest with me: did you father inflict this wound on you?’ 

     ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ Angie forces a smile. ‘I slipped and fell smack on my face.’ She mocks a wince. ‘I was a laughin’ stock––not goin’ out having drank that much booze again.’ 

     ‘I see.’ Peggy sighs heavily. ‘Well, then.’ She applies a plaster onto the injury. ‘Your father was very fond of alcohol, as well.’ Angie stiffens again, but for an entirely different reason. ‘Does he always allow men to handle you like that?’ 

     ‘You’re talkin’ nonsense now. Where’re ya from? England, right?’ 

     ‘Yes, that’s right.’ 

     ‘Ah. So, you wouldn’t get what it’s like here.’

     ‘What?’

     Angie knows her logic doesn’t make sense, but she _doesn’t_ like Peggy asking questions about her father. At all. ‘I need to go home.’ She stands to her feet, but Peggy is faster. She takes a hold of her wrist.  

     ‘I recommend you staying here for the night.’ 

     ‘But, I need to get home. Peggy.’ She grimaces, and pulls away her wrist. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate anyway.’ 

     Peggy pauses. Hesitates. Then, she rolls back her shoulders and she’s a soldier again. A frightening commanding officer who can knock out a man with barely a flick of her wrist. She’s out of Angie’s league, beyond her understanding––too clever, too brilliant, and too beautiful.  

     ‘Very good, Angie. However, I will escort you home, and I’m afraid your protests will simply fall on deaf ears.’

     At that, Angie has to smile, and mean it. ‘That’s fine by me, English.’


	2. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you for your wonderful feedback and encouragement on the first chapter. It means the world to me.  
> Without further ado, here's the second chapter!

    Miss Carter walks with such astonishing confidence, several by-passers watch her as she and Angie approach Angie’s home. The snow has calmed, and Christmas lights are hung up around New York City. Amidst a war, people still celebrate a favourite, traditional holiday. Amidst a war, people are still capable of smiling and appreciating the very little they have. 

    It’s so cold. Angie has a very thin coat, and it’s nothing compared to Peggy’s army uniform. Shuddering, Angie wraps her arms around herself and quickens her pace, desperate to be in the warmth of her own home. To her embarrassment, Peggy catches on, and slips off her trench coat. ‘Here,’ she says. Angie is about to protest, but Peggy Carter is an insistent woman and, hell, she _is_ freezing! 

    ‘Thanks, hon.’ She gratefully takes it from the older woman, and shoves on the coat. It’s warm, thick and waterproof. Perfect. Plus, it smells of Peggy, and that in itself is a bonus. Angie tucks her chin into the collar, and her body temperature increases dramatically. Colour reaches her cheeks, and she stops shivering. She turns to Peggy, mildly concerned for her wellbeing. ‘Will you be okay?’

    Peggy nods. ‘Yes, I’ve had to deal with colder weather than this. And that was without a coat.’

    ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Angie breathes. She looks at the bruises on Peggy's face, undoubtedly a result from the war. But it's clear Peggy was involved in some sort of physical violence. Despite her anticipation to ask, Angie decides to focus on a lighter topic. ‘Y’know, my brother is in the army too.’

    ‘Is he?’

    ‘Mm-Hm. I haven’t heard from him in a while, though.’

    ‘I shan’t worry. The postal service isn’t exactly brilliant, and how bad it is depends on where your brother is currently stationed. Do you have any ideas?’

    Angie shakes her head. ‘No.’ Because, as much as she wishes this weren’t the case, her brother isn’t great at communication _anyway_. As soon as he was sent off to fight, he was relieved to be out of his father’s glare. Although leaving his older sister was difficult, he didn’t look back once. If he’s dead or alive, Angie hasn’t the slightest clue. 

    Suddenly she stops walking and grabs Peggy’s wrist.

    ‘Can you help find him? If I give you his name, would that help?’

    Peggy sighs, a heavy sigh––she has been asked this before. ‘I’d be delighted to help you. Unfortunately, it is extremely unlikely your brother and I will ever cross paths. By all means, tell me his name, but I cannot promise you anything.’

    ‘No, no, that’s perf–– _fine_ , that’s fine. Hang on.’ Angie stuffs a hand into her coat pocket beneath Peggy’s, and retrieves an old, black and white photograph. The edges are worn, and slightly ripped. ‘This is him: he’s older than this now, but it should give you some idea.’ Peggy holds the photograph, and studies the boy. He has a remarkable resemblance to Angie, particularly around the eyes and jawline. Very short hair, clean shaven, and he wears glasses.

    Whenever soldiers wearing glasses arrive it’s never good news.

    They are bullied, looked down upon. Glasses are seen as a hinderance not only to the wearer, but every other soldier associated with him.

    Peggy tries to smile hopefully. ‘I’ll remember him.’ She’s about to return the photograph, but Angie urges her to keep it. ‘Very well. You neglected to inform me his name?’

    ‘Angelo, and my name: Martinelli.’

    ‘Angela and Angelo.’ Peggy’s smile falls lopsided. ‘Was that deliberate?’

    ‘I dunno,’ Angie chuckles, shrugging her shoulders. She knows, of course, but the similarity in the two names is unimportant. The humour dries, and she asks again, ‘Can you help?’

    ‘I’ll do what I can.’ 

    ‘Thanks, Peggy. You’re a real angel, y’know that?’

    ‘That’s not really the best way I’d describe myself,’ Peggy mutters, lowering her gaze––she’s flattered. And she’s not used to flattery, not from an honest woman at least. Not from a woman who doesn’t have an ulterior motive. ‘The problem is, Angie, is that I’m not necessarily a soldier––obviously. My work is different than your brother’s.’

    Frowning, Angie shoves her hands into her pockets, feeling cold again. ‘What d’you mean?’

    Should she tell her? Should Peggy reveal she is in fact a secret agent? Or, should she leave herself in the dark? Peggy watches the other woman, with her tight shoulders, worried face, wide, amazing eyes. The sweetest smile. Her eyes linger on Angie’s plastered cheek. She sighs again, through her nose, and carefully slips the photograph into her pocket. ‘Never mind. Forget I said anything. So, are we close?’

    ‘Hn?’ Angie raises her brows. Peggy’s referring to home. ‘Yeah, we’re close!’ She beams. ‘I’m so happy you’re gonna try and find him.’ Peggy’s heart drops a little at that. She doesn’t want Angie to think she _can_ find Angelo Martinelli. The amount of soldiers who are out there, fighting, is thousands. Who’s even to say Angelo is currently in the States? 

    Peggy doesn’t react––or tries not to. Angie takes the soldier’s hand and encourages her forward. Peggy is taken by slight surprise; Angie is stronger than she looks.

    ‘C’mon, I’m _fuckin_ ’ freezing!’ Angie laughs, possibly due to her cursing, or the fact Peggy might find her lost brother, or maybe due to the snow and Christmas nearing, or maybe all of these things together. Either way, her excitement is endearing, and the two ladies hurry through the thick blanket of snow, hand-in-hand, their boots coated in white powder.

    The lights are a blur while they race back. Peggy is fitter than Angie because of her career, and Angie starts to grow tired, her knees aching. Peggy pulls her arm and Angie’s giggling, pushing into her playfully. Snowflakes descend from the dark sky, and the wind is harsh and nippy. Angie directs Peggy round a corner, and they soon arrive at her home. Or, more accurately, apartment. The building is squashed next to another, and is upstairs. The floorboard creaks with their every step, and it’s even colder inside than out.

    Angie lets go of Peggy’s hand. She reaches her apartment door, and is about to enter, when she realises Peggy hasn’t followed her. Angie turns to face her. Peggy is lingering at the top of the staircase, rosy cheeked, looking utterly breathtaking as always. How is it possible for a woman to maintain her looks in such weather?

    ‘I should leave you here.’

    ‘You’re not gonna come in?’

    Peggy opens her mouth to say something, then thinks otherwise. She shakes her head. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Will you be all right?’

    ‘Sure. I’m a tough gal.’ Angie’s smile fades, ‘You’re gonna come back to the Automat, right? All of tha’ Early Grey Tea is gonna go to waste.’

    ‘ _Earl_ Grey.’ Angie pulls a face at her. ‘And, of course! I’ll try and visit as much as I can.’

    They wait. They wait for one of them to say something, to say good bye, to do _something_. Angie feels her palms grow clammy, and she doesn’t know whether she feels nervous, scared or happy. She hopes Peggy will visit soon. Not in the next month, not in a couple of weeks–– _soon_. A day? Two days? _Soon_ would be nice. Because if it’s more than soon, Angie will miss her dreadfully.

    It even pinches now, having to say their farewells.

    ‘Before I forget, I’d like my coat back.’

    ‘Oh!’ Angie smiles meekly. She’s reluctant to remove the thick attire from her body. As soon as Peggy’s trench coat passes her shoulders, the chill hits. ‘Wouldn’t’ve minded stealin’ that from ya.’

    ‘Maybe next time,’ Peggy smiles, donning her coat. ‘If that’s all, then––’

    ‘Martinelli!’ A deep voice booms from the bottom of the staircase. ‘ _Martinelli_! Is that you?!’

    Peggy frowns and looks at Angie in puzzlement. Heart in her mouth, Angie recognises the voice. It’s her landlord. And he’ll want to know where his rent is. ‘Oh, no,’ Angie gasps, rushing past Peggy and leaning over the bannister. ‘Uh, y––yes, it’s me!’ Her landlord looks up and glares at her savagely. Before he can demand his money, Angie quickly announces, ‘We’re workin’ on it, sir, I promise! I get my paycheque this week––’

    ‘Like I give three _shits_ when you get a paycheque. You owed me money three damn months ago!’ With that, her landlord stamps his way up the staircase, red in the face and fuming.

    Oh, God. Oh, _God_.

    Angie turns to Peggy, wide eyed. ‘I’m so sorry. If you leave now, he won’t notice you.’

    Peggy holds up her hand to stop Angie from talking further. To Angie’s shock, and slight dread, Peggy stays put and watches the landlord appear. He breathes heavily, and has a robust chest, out of shape. Peggy can take him out easily, but she restrains herself.

    For now.

    The landlord is about to yell at Angie, until he notices Peggy standing there. ‘Who’re you?’

    ‘A friend passing through. Who are you?’

    ‘ _Her_ ––’ he points at Angie, ‘––landlord, who has been _far_ too generous these past three months.’ He clicks his fingers in Angie’s direction, ‘You gonna pay up or what?’

    ‘Sir, I don’t have the money––’

    ‘Enough of your lies! Your drunk Papa tells me the same horse shit.’

    ‘She says she does not have the money.’

    The landlord throws a glare at Peggy. ‘This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, woman.’

    ‘Woman?’ Peggy cocks a brow. ‘Are you attempting to insult me? _Man_.’

    ‘Tsk.’ He scowls at her, impatient. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

    ‘No, I'm quite happy where I am.’

    ‘I’ll fuckin’ _throw_ you out.’

    Peggy’s expression is solid. She is _completely_ unnerved. ‘I’d like to see you try.’ 

    It’s the way she looks at him, stoic and cold, which makes Angie’s landlord realise she is more than she appears. Wisely, he takes a step back, glancing at Angie in confusion. He doesn’t understand Peggy, and Angie doesn’t know if she does either. One thing she knows is that Peggy is too good to be true. Both landlord and Peggy hold each other’s gaze, and it’s the landlord who looks away.

    He surrenders. The landlord pulls a disgusted face at Angie, and then quietly walks back down the stairs and into his own apartment. The door slams shut behind him.

    Angie exhales slowly, relieved. 

    ‘Sometimes...’ she smiles, ‘... Y’know, I sometimes feel like a damsel in need’ve savin’ when you’re around.’

    ‘Even I know that’s a load of nonsense. What that _wanker_ says about you does not define who you are. Don’t allow him to frighten you. Believe me, he’s all talk, no action. He doesn’t have the guts to kick you and your father out, otherwise he would have done it already.’

    ‘Wanker?’ Peggy shrugs. Angie grins at her. ‘You’re so funny, English.’ She mocks a dreamy sigh. ‘And _so_ heroic!’

    They laugh, linger for a while, and then silently decide it be best they part ways. 

    Angie comes over and pulls Peggy in for an embrace, feeling Peggy’s arms hesitantly, but securely, wrap around her waist. Peggy smells good. Something like lavender, and the musk of her army uniform. It’s a heavy, yet feminine scent and it makes Angie feel almost drowsy. 

    A ball forms in her throat, and she’s not too sure why she’s getting emotional. Regardless, Angie doesn’t express her sadness to see Peggy leave. Both women come apart. Angie’s fingers trail over Peggy’s sleeve as she turns away.

    Hand on the bannister, Peggy peers at Angie over her shoulder. 

    ‘Be good now.’

    ‘I’ll try my best,’ Angie teases, and watches Peggy elegantly step down the staircase, and then out of the flat. Gone into the dark, lonely evening. The smile vanishes from her face, and Angie’s arms encircle her waist, where Peggy’s had been only seconds ago. She hovers at the top of the staircase, thinking of Peggy and only Peggy. Her face, her eyes, her lips, the way she holds herself, and her awing confidence. 

    She can take down any man, without a doubt, and she can do it easily.

    Angie’s heart races a little faster. Will Peggy be able to find her brother? Will she remember to? _Will she even remember Angie’s existence?_ Angie sighs longingly, and swivels on her heel, entering her apartment. The lights are off, and she accidentally bumps into one of her father’s suitcases on her way in. Cursing quietly, she flicks on a light and dumps her bag.

    It doesn’t take her long to find her father. He is collapsed on the settee where that soldier –– Featherstone, she remembers –– must have left him. Angie comes over and drapes a blanket over his dozing form. She catches sight of something in his clenched hand. It’s shiny, winking up at her. Angie furrows her brows, and retrieves whatever the item is.

    A medal. One her father used to wear on his uniform.

    Back when he, too, was a soldier.

    Back before the shell shock. Back before he came home thrashing and yelling and crying and drinking.

    A while ago, she and her father had decided to never speak of a time before the war.

    Not when things were good. Or, _better_ at least.

    Angie returns the medal into his hand. She raises the blanket up to his chin, before preparing herself a small, hot meal.

    From the small kitchen, she watches her father doze. The night is silent, aside from her father’s snoring. Angie’s eyes linger away from him to the floor, and she thinks about Peggy. Whether she’ll be staying at that nice hotel overnight, or if she might even have a “friend” to keep her company this evening.

    A part of her pinches, and Angie doesn’t think about that.

    Instead, she turns on the radio, listens to the muffled voices of debating men, some jazz music, and eats alone. By the time she goes to bed, she’s shuddering in the cold, and drapes as many blankets as she can around her trembling body. 

    The war rages on.


	3. 03

     In a few days, she will be given a sniper rifle, and then she will shoot an agent in the head. 

     One of them has been caught by the SS. In fear of said agent spilling too much information, orders have been sent out to be rid of the agent so no further harm is caused. This sort of job is nothing out of the ordinary. Peggy has done this before. The situation only proves difficult when the agent is somebody she knows. This one in particular isn’t a friend. In fact, none of her colleagues are friends. They refer to each through codename for starters. Any personal bond is severed from that point on.

     However, that doesn’t make it _easy_ per se. Especially when your target has always been friendly towards you. Especially when your target is a decent human being, and their getting caught was only an _accident_. A slip-up. Something they would fix if they had the chance. At a younger age, when all of this was new to her, Peggy frequently delved into the rights and wrongs of shooting an agent being held hostage. Nowadays, it’s merely work. When the job is done, she and the others will flee the scene.

     Ethics have no place in a time of war.

     After hearing she will travel out of the States, Peggy’s first instinct was to contact her sister, but there wouldn’t be much point. Why make her sister worry? She already had her two sons fighting in the army, as well as her husband. The last thing she needed was knowing Peggy had been assigned to _kill_. In four days time, Peggy will leave the States and be on her way to France. She may disappear altogether. She may not come back. Her corpse may be found amongst others.

     Yet it is a price all soldiers are willing to pay.

     She visits the L&L Automat one last time, and takes her usual seat at the front, where Angie will undoubtedly spot her. And, of course, she does and she’s overjoyed Peggy has arrived sooner than she anticipated. Unknowing that Peggy’s reasons will wipe the smile off her face effortlessly. Peggy doesn’t tell Angie about her work. She has to be subtle. Regardless, she doesn’t want to end up dead on enemy territory without Angie knowing why. Peggy will tell her what she needs to know. Eventually.

     ‘You look glum,’ Angie comments.

     Peggy raises her brows. ‘You certainly know how to charm a lady.’

     ‘You’ll be surprised. I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve.’ Her eyes glint in the light, and her smile turns crooked. Before Peggy is able to understand what Angie is implying, the waitress slides over a mug and saucer. ‘Is it the usual, honey?’

     ‘Yes, please. How was your father?’

     ‘Out like a light,’ Angie says, dumping a slice of lemon and a teabag into the mug, before pouring hot water. ‘Your officer sure did a good job. I hope Daddy wasn’t too much trouble. He gets that way sometimes.’

     ‘Don’t give it another thought. I’ve had to deal with much worse. Your father was a delight in comparison.’ Angie chuckles softly at that. Peggy sips her Earl Grey, and spots a couple on a nearby table. A soldier is holding his girlfriend’s hand and whispering in her ear. Neither are happy. Peggy looks away. 

     Angie notices the couple too, then faces Peggy, frowning: a mixture of concern and puzzlement. ‘You never told me about what you do,’ she says. Peggy raises a brow, so Angie adds, ‘You said you’re not exactly a soldier. I just wanted to know what, uh, what you do.’

     ‘My work is _similar_ , but more... _focussed_ , I suppose.’ That’s not really the word Peggy would use, but it was all she could come up with. Plus, Angie looking at her this way makes it hard to _think_. She takes her teaspoon and pokes the slice of lemon with it. ‘I find out valuable information, and then send it back to England or the States, depending. Hopefully the information I gather will help us win the war.’

     Chewing on her lower lip, Angie’s frown doesn’t vanish. She watches her for a while. ‘Oh.’ Maybe she’ll figure it out in due time. Maybe not. As much as Peggy wishes she could be brutally honest, she can’t. She promised to keep her lips sealed, and she is brilliant at keeping secrets, especially from loved ones. Peggy sighs softly when Angie has to attend to another customer. Yes, she is brilliant at keeping secrets, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel guilt.

     Suddenly she’s thinking about Steve. How honest and sympathetic he was. If he were a secret agent, he would have told his closest friends and his family. He would have told them everything because he _is_ like that. Steve is gentle, caring and bursting with love. It’s something Peggy wishes she was too. Steve is _safe_. Kindhearted. Peggy is dangerous. Cold when she has to be.

     Angie would be happier if Steve were her friend, not Peggy.

     Her heart tightens and she downs her tea quickly. It’s hot and makes her throat raw, but she ignores the pain. It’s her nerves talking. She’s _nervous_. About tomorrow, about travelling to France, about shooting this poor soul’s skull, who’s probably being tortured as Peggy sits here. Grinding her teeth, she notices the couple are no longer together. The soldier is alone; his girlfriend must have left. He sits, head bowed, staring at his mug of coffee, utterly resigned. 

     If she informs Angie about her leaving, would Angie react the same?

     Would she not be able to handle it? Would she _abandon_ her?

     Peggy remembers someone she used to see who did that. He was a year older, and he couldn’t understand why she was being sent away _the one time_ he would be able to spend time with her. He didn’t understand her work. He couldn’t _process_ why she’d rather go out of her own way, when she could spend the night with him. That evening, he had been jealous, possessive and he walked out of the door, never to reappear in her life again.

     Love is such a _hinderance_. Peggy rolls her eyes at herself. 

     Angie is _not_ her lover, for starters. She is her friend. And while she may not be able to totally _get_ why Peggy does what she does, and why she is the way she is, at least Angie would try. She’d accept the facts, even if they hurt her. What’s so tricky about all of this is that Peggy doesn’t know when she’ll return. She hasn’t a single idea. More to the point, she doesn’t know whether she’ll _be_ back.

     Finishing her tea, Peggy stands to leave, in the hopes of catching Angie on her way out.

     To her surprise (and relief), Angie is already by her side, hands clasped. ‘You’re off so soon?’

     ‘Yes, sorry. I was wondering if we could have a word?’ Angie stiffens at that. Peggy smiles. ‘Oh, it’s nothing serious, I assure you! No reason to feel scared.’

     ‘Sure, English.’ Angie gives her a suspicious look. It’s playful, but slightly sincere. ‘I actually go on my lunch break now. Can you wait for me? I’ll be five minutes.’

     ‘I’ll be here.’

     When Angie hurries into the back room to change out of her apron, it is _not_ fear she endures, despite what Peggy assumes. She’s heard that before: a little word. It’s usually––if not always–– _bigger_ than little. And Peggy isn’t the type to take her to the side and ask for such. Pulling on her coat, Angie joins Peggy outside and together they make their way through the snow.

     Angie’s shoes aren’t very efficient in this sort of weather, but she tolerates the chill. They don’t discuss Peggy’s matter, until they reach the park. Angie watches Peggy pull out a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, propping one between her lips and lighting it. She offers Angie one, who declines. She’s tried smoking before, but it just wasn’t for her. 

     After several inhales of nicotine, Peggy knows what she is going to say.

     She doesn’t beat around the bush.

     ‘I’m being sent away for a fortnight, if not longer.’ Peggy doesn’t look at her. Instead, she admires the trees, covered in white. The park is so beautiful during this time of year. ‘I’m not entirely certain when I’ll return to the States, or even meet you for that matter, but my estimate is a fortnight. I’ve handled jobs like these before and, if successful, my estimate will be correct.’

     ‘Where’re you going?’ Angie has a little voice now. A sharp contrast to her usual energy.

     ‘I can’t say.’

     ‘What do they want you to do?’

     ‘That I can’t reveal either.’ Peggy finishes her cigarette, stops walking and stubs it with her heel. This gives her the opportunity to look at Angie properly, and she immediately regrets her decision. It’s probably her bluntness, but Angie is not dealing with the news well. She’s wincing. Her hands are clenched by her sides, and she’s stiff and suddenly so small. ‘You don’t need to worry––’

     ‘You’re kidding, right? _Don’t worry_?’ Angie exhales slowly in an attempt to calm down. ‘What if you get killed?’ Peggy laughs a little, and Angie misinterprets her humour. She’s insulted. ‘What’s so funny? D’you know how many soldiers––or whatever you are––are sent away and never seen again?’

     ‘Listen, _of course_ my life is at stake here, but I can tell you, with full confidence, that I will not die.’

     ‘How can you be so sure?’

     ‘Because I’m good at what I do.’ Peggy shrugs. She doesn’t think this way. She’s not arrogant. But, sometimes, arrogance is necessary in order to survive. ‘I wanted to tell you because you _should_ know.’ Angie looks away, brows furrowed. She’s thinking. ‘We can write to each other. My location will not be static, but I can write and, at least that way, you’ll know I’m alive.’

     ‘I just––’ Angie runs a hand down the side of her face, and looks at Peggy. ‘I really like bein’ with ya. And if you go away, I’m really not gonna like it.’ She groans. ‘God, you’re gonna make me grow greys!’

     ‘I’ve liked being around you as well. Who’s to say this will be our last time together?’ Peggy steps closer. ‘Look at me.’ Angie does, and when her eyes meet Peggy’s, her frown vanishes, and her expression, altogether, falls. ‘Have a little faith in me. I will write to you as soon as I can.’

     Angie nods slowly. ‘I’ll write back,’ she replies, feeling helpless and pathetic. Peggy will be thrown out with the wolves, and Angie will remain safe in her diner. Who’s the soldier here? She nearly scowls. Peggy must feel ashamed to be around her. All Angie has is a drunken father who beats her, a measly salary, and the occasional friend who _isn’t_ dead. And now Peggy too?

     She’s waved good bye to male friends, and female friends. Attended more funerals than a woman her age should have. She’s been a survivor, but only out of luck.

     It feels as if a heavy boulder has crushed into her stomach, and she can’t breathe. The impact of Peggy’s unfortunate news finally smacks her in the face, and it’s a little too much to bear. She doesn’t want to _lose_ Peggy. This wonderful woman, her friend, who––even though they barely know one another––has watched her back and defended her. 

     No one has made her landlord walk away from a fight. No one has been able to step in and protect her from men’s large hands. No one. 

     But then there’s Peggy Carter. 

     It’s not the heroics, though, that Angie feels so compelled towards. 

     ‘You’d better come back, English, you hear?’

     ‘I hear you.’ Peggy’s reluctance begins to show, but she skilfully manages to shadow it with a smile. ‘I’ll leave in four days, but there’s a great deal of preparation required prior to that. So, unfortunately, I won’t be able to see you until––’

     Angie places a finger to Peggy’s lips, grinning. ‘Jeez, you do talk a lot when you wanna!’ She doesn’t mention she finds her babbling extremely cute. Angie’s finger falls from her lips, ‘It’s all right: I get it. You have a very important job.’ She places her hands behind her back. ‘Don’t think that makes it any easier for me to let you go, Pegs.’

     A faint blush spreads over Peggy’s cheeks, and she wisely decides to ignore it. Whatever Angie means, she’s certain to figure it out someday.

     Or maybe she’s just too oblivious to notice.

     ‘I’ll come back,’ Peggy promises. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

     ‘I’m not the one you should be sayin’ that too.’ 

     They linger. 

     Angie feels her insides tighten.

     ‘Good bye.’

     ‘Bye.’

     ‘Bye.’

     They move in to embrace. Angie presses her lips to Peggy’s cheek, and they stop. Angie’s breath tickles her nose as Peggy looks at her, hands still on Angie’s arms. They consider it. They both consider kissing each other, they both imagine drawing each other close and tasting one another, but something causes Peggy to break free. She steps back, a silly, uncertain smile reaching her lips.

     Angie doesn’t cover her curiosity, or the fact she’s upset to see her leave. 

     Brushing past her, heart in her mouth, hands shaking, Peggy briskly walks out of the park. She tightens her coat around herself, and lights another cigarette. Just as she reaches the gates, she turns around, hoping and not hoping Angie will still be where she left her.

     Snowflakes have already covered their footprints. 

     Angie is gone.

     All that’s left is the memory. The regret of not seizing what could have been. 


	4. 04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say that each kudos/comment I have received have been _so_ important to me, so thank you to everyone who is supporting the progress of this story.

    Their mission is chaotic. Either it’s miscommunication, or simple incompetence. The result: they lost their target. They were delayed, too busy figuring out which way the vehicle would be driven––target within, two soldiers in the front two seats. By the end of a very exhausting, and infuriating day, Peggy is seething. She will be stuck in France for longer than she anticipated, as will her coworkers. Immediately, they get back to work.

    After all, the longer they wait, the more at risk they are.

    Resources at a minimum, communication limited, and maintaining a distance with her coworkers is nearly close to impossible. She, accidentally, manages to befriend one. More or less. This woman––probably on purpose––does not use her codename.

    She is called Dorothy Underwood. Blonde hair; long, thin frame. And she shows a particular interest in Peggy. The two women spend most of the next three months together. Nothing inappropriate. Peggy never allows her own personal needs, feelings or desires to get in the way of work, even if this woman tempts her from time to time.

    It’s the flirting, the invitations to “snuggle”. Frankly, Peggy isn’t too surprised. Work like this gets lonely. It just doesn’t occur to her that this woman might have an ulterior motive. By the fourth week, she finally has time to write to Angie, and Peggy has no idea how to begin her letter. Should she apologise for not writing sooner? Should she not acknowledge her delayed communication, in case Angie hasn’t noticed?

    Nonsense. Of _course_ Angie has noticed.

    The hardest part is having to inform Angie she will be away from her longer than they dreaded. Grabbing a pen, she sits at her desk, and taps her index finger on her lower lip. She recalls their kiss. Or, Angie’s kiss. Just one––on the cheek. And it didn’t mean anything, really. Surely. Ah, hell. Peggy doesn’t know anymore. Everything is so confusing.

    She inhales sharply, and forces herself to write.

 

 

_Angela,_

_Regrettably, my plan to return to the States has not gone accordingly. I shall remain in my current location for, at least, another month. However, your guess is as good as mine._

_I hope you’re well._

_Please do write._

_Warmest regards,_

_M.C._

 

 

 

    Christmas passes. Peggy’s fingers are close to freezing off when she receives Angie’s response. The envelope is crumpled due to travel, and, alone in the small camp, she presses the letter to her chest. She feels nauseous, nervous Angie may be angry. That she might have called off all communication. Getting to know Peggy isn’t worth it.

    Better safe than sorry.

    Peggy swallows, and tucks her thumb beneath the fold and opens the envelope.

 

 

_Darling,_

_I had a hunch things weren’t going well for you. I’m upset my hunch is correct. I know you can only tell me so little, but I still worry––about_ _you_ _. Whenever you find the time, please try and write to me. Update me on what’s going on. The Automat misses its favourite customer._

_As do I._

_I’m fine, but I’d feel a lot better if you were here._

_Torna presto!_

_Angie_

 

 

    She reads it over twice, clinging to her jacket, before she’s called for duty.

 

 

 

    Four weeks ago, Angie had responded to Peggy’s letter, and she is still waiting for her reply. Distraction is hard to come by. Distraction makes it easier for Angie not to think about Peggy, not to delve into _why_ she hasn’t replied. She _hopes_ it’s because Peggy is busy. Yet, a part of her has to _scream_ at that. So what? Peggy _must_ have _some_ free time on her hands in order to write a short letter. Is that selfish? Is Angie acting ridiculously?

    Had she said something wrong?

    Angie runs her hands down her face. She shouldn’t have referred to Peggy as “darling”.

    Silly, silly, _oh, God, I’m so silly_!

    Their kiss, or whatever it was–– _it was stupid_. Angie had kissed _her_. And it was _Peggy_ who moved away. It was Peggy who stopped their lips from touching. It was Peggy who stopped everything from happening. Angie groans into her hands. How she wishes she didn’t feel this way. How she wishes Peggy wasn’t so alluring, so intelligent and _capable_. 

    Angie doesn’t want to admit she may be falling for a soldier.

    Her shift starts in an hour. Daddy has disappeared, probably to drink. She likes to think he might have gone out looking for work, but who’s she kidding? At least he hasn’t hit her since Peggy left. Angie doesn’t think she can handle another blow.

    Once her uniform is on, she hears a knock at the door, and for a foolish moment, her heart pounds against her ribcage, and she beams–– _it has to be Peggy_!

    Then, she hears her landlord’s voice.

    ‘I know you’re in there! I’ll break down the fuckin’ door.’

    Angie scowls. She’s not in the mood. And she hates her landlord for indirectly making her think Peggy might have come back. Collecting her keys, Angie is about to approach the door, with the intention to walk straight past her landlord, but she’s taken by surprise when he does, indeed, break down the door. Angie jumps in shock.

    Fuming, her landlord storms inside.

    ‘Guess your girlfriend ain’t here to save ya.’

    Angie isn’t afraid of him. Not after the way Peggy handled him. He’s an absolute wimp. So, instead of letting him yell at her, she heads for the window, opens it, and climbs through. Her landlord exclaims at her, and runs over. He tries to reach out for her arm, but Angie is out of the window, and climbing down the drainpipe. 

    She lands on someone’s balcony, clambers onto their bannister and jumps down onto the ground. It’s barely a height, and she lands on her feet gracefully. Grinning, she looks up at her landlord who shakes his fist at her. He calls a very rude name, which only makes the situation funnier for the young Italian. Angie flicks him the finger, waves charmingly, and hurries off to work.

 

 

 

_Peggy,_

_I miss you. Are you well? Are you_ _alive_ _?_

_Please respond. The wait is torture._

_Angie_

 

 

 

    ‘You okay, hon?’ One of her colleagues asks. Angie glances at her, and forces a smile. The Automat is empty this morning, which is fairly pleasant. Angie needs some time to think. Yet thinking isn’t exactly good for her mood. It’s been such a long time since she’s heard from Peggy, and while it kills her to admit this, she thinks Peggy is dead.

    That hurts. That hurts too much. It’s the sort of pain which will cause Angie to collapse to her knees and _wail_. 

    ‘Uh-Huh.’ Angie plays with a teaspoon, grazing it across the table. ‘Just thinkin’ and stuff.’

    ‘Oh?’ Her colleague smirks. ‘Who is he?’

    ‘What?’ Angie looks at her with raised brows.

    ‘You _always_ look like this when you gotta crush! ‘Member last time? With that nice, French guy you liked?’

    Oh. "Him". Angie looks away.

    There was no French guy. There was a French _girl_ , though.

    A few years ago. Before she was sent away.

    Angie chuckles softly. ‘Aw, you know me too well!’ She shoves her friend playfully. ‘I ain’t tellin’ you about him. This one’s all secretive, so.’

    ‘Secretive is nice. It’s _hot_.’

    ‘Kinda. Sometimes it’s hot. Sometimes it’s horrible.’

    ‘Where is he?’

    ‘I dunno. He won’t–– _can’t_ tell me.’ Angie frowns. ‘I think he’s a secret agent or somethin' like that, but I dunno where he is or what he’s doin’.’ Her smile falls, and she’s been talking about Peggy too much for her to maintain a happy face. Talking about Peggy makes her sad. She really, _really_ misses her. ‘He hasn’t replied to my letters. I dunno if he’s dead.’

    Her friend’s humour dries. She comes closer, and places a hand on Angie’s back. ‘You’d be told, right? They send out letters to family?’

    ‘I ain’t family. And his family live in England, and they don’t know about me.’

    ‘... What’s he like?’

    Angie sighs, and props herself on one elbow. What is he like? What is _she_ like? What is Margaret Carter like? 

    Fierce. Strong. Feminine. Beautiful. _Warm_.

    ‘Grumpy.’

    Both girls giggle.

 

 

_Peggy,_

_It has been two months, and I still haven’t received a response from you. I won’t write further letters, because I’m not entirely sure if you’re still staying at the address you gave me._

_Sometimes, when the phone rings I think it’s you. Or, when there’s a knock at the door. I had a really grim confrontation with my stupid landlord. I dealt with him, though. I suppose I learnt from the best._

_When a woman enters the Automat wearing army uniform, I think it’s you. Imagine my disappointment when it’s not. I don’t mean to say this to make you feel guilty! I just hope it gives you some sort of comfort that I’m thinking about you still. I haven’t forgotten about you, and I’m waiting for your return. I think you’re in desperate need of some tea, right?_

_You’re all I think about._

_Sei la mia rosa._

_Angela_

 

 

    That night, the night she writes the letter, blanket over her shoulders, legs sore from being on her feet all day, Angie considers the possibility.

    The possibility that, someday soon, she _will_ receive a phone call, or a letter, or a knock at the door.

    A soldier, a stranger, will inform her about Miss Carter’s death.

    At least, then, Angie will know. She’ll be out of her misery.

    So she can finally just drown in her agony.

    But, no soldier arrives at her door. She has no phone call from a stranger. No letter. _No letters_. Every day, she asks Daddy if they’ve had mail, and after a month, he catches on. He always shakes his head, sorry for her. On her final day of asking, it’s when she comes into the apartment, and before she opens her mouth, Daddy turns to her and says:

    ‘Your soldier hasn’t replied. I don’t think she’ll be replyin’ anytime soon, either.’ He tells her the truth, brutally and honestly, and only for her sake. Angie’s face turns blank, expressionless, and she realises, yes––

    ––Peggy is dead.

    Alone in her room, she searches for Peggy’s single letter. Her hands are trembling, tears sting her eyes, and she reads it over and over and over, hoping to search for a clue. 

 

 

_Angela,_

_Regrettably, my plan to return to the States has not gone accordingly. I shall remain in my current location for, at least, another month. However, your guess is as good as mine._

_I hope you’re well_ ––

 

 

    A tear splatters onto the paper, smudging the ink. Angie slowly sits down, and endures the weight of her heart cracking inside her. Their last time together floods in her mind, and she can’t get rid of the image of her face, her smile, her words. Angie hugs her knees, hides her face and cries until she can no longer cry.

 

 

 

    March approaches. She doesn’t talk about the secretive gentleman anymore. She goes back to work, she falls into routine again, and she no longer asks Daddy whether she has a letter. It’s what always happens now. The amount of women who fall back into routine, but not _really_. She may live life as if the secretive gentleman did not exist, but she’d have to be crazed to believe she can honestly do that. To live her life and _smile_.

    Because, every day, it still damn _hurts_. Every day it feels as if there are chains clasped around her ankles and wrists, dragging her back as she tries to move forward. The strain cuts into her flesh, makes her bleed, and her small body just cannot manage the impact.

    Well, at least she’s not crying anymore.

    March approaches and the sun is starting to peek through the clouds. The smell melted long ago, and the war goes on.

    Angie has an audition tomorrow.

    It’s _The Tempest_ , by Shakespeare. A very small performing arts group are holding auditions, and there’s no expectation there will be a large audience, but it’s all for fun. It’s obvious which character Angie will be auditioning for. A daughter, banished on an island with her father, thus lacking the social skills which all civil beings develop. All she has is her father, and their slave, Caliban, to keep her company. 

    A challenge, definitely, but Angie adores a challenge. 

 

 

 

    It goes smoothly. Better than ever. Maybe she understands the character more, after everything that has happened to her. Maybe acting is suddenly _so_ crucial to her right now, her getaway, somewhere to run, that she _has_ to win this audition. Maybe after her Daddy, acting is all she has left. As far as she’s concerned, her brother and the woman she fell in love with are gone.

    She returns to the apartment at one o’clock in the morning. Numb and void of feeling; _so exhausted_. 

    Angie flicks on the light. Daddy is asleep upstairs. He’s left her some food on the table. An enveloped letter rests beside the dinner plate. Angie guesses he’s written to her. Just to make sure she’s all right, and she’s welcome to disturb him from his slumber if the audition went terribly.

    Shoving off her coat, Angie then closes the curtains. She’s famished, and she immediately reaches for the food. That is when she sees the name on the envelope.

    All at once, her body freezes.

    Horror, sadness, relief and confusion hit her all at once.

    The plate of food smashes to the floor.

    Before she picks up the envelope, Angie is already crying. Tears burn down her cheeks as her trembling hands hold the envelope, and she tries to rip it open. She’s overwhelmed. Oh, _Christ_. She can’t _breathe_. Angie inhales, wipes her eyes, and tries to calm down. A smile reaches her lips for the first time in months, and she only has to read the first line before she’s on her knees.

 

 

_Angela,_

_I have received each of your letters, and I have treasured them. I am mortified that I have not had the opportunity to respond. It has been hectic here, and I miss you dearly._

_I am so sorry._

_Everything has been a success. I will be returning to the States on Tuesday, next week. In the meantime, I will continue writing you letters. I’m sure you have much to inform me about, so please share all._

_I wait, albeit impatiently, for the day I see your face again._

_Stay safe._

_M.C._

 

 


	5. 05

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Okay, so I managed to write this chapter in one evening, because these two refused to get out of my head, which is frustrating when you're on top of a ladder and trying to concentrate on painting your walls. As well as maintain your balance. It's harder than you think, for I am a little Brit.  
>  So is trying to be in control of these delightful characters. This chapter honestly went on its own tangent. I am not responsible for the stupid things Peggy does. She is an independent woman, after all. ;)

Spring . 1944.

 

 

 

     Peggy wishes time were a matter of choice.

     That there be an option to slow down time, to relinquish each moment.She has missed so many moments in her still youthful life. Having the ability to hesitate, stop and think, _alter the consequence_. If time weren’t in such a hurry, she thinks her life would be simpler. The blurs of conversations she had with Steve, so engulfed in their own war, they never really had the time to enjoy one another’s company. _Properly_. They never really had the opportunity to sit down, and _not talk about the bloody war_. Maybe if time were slower, she wouldn’t have let him get onto that plane. _Christ, if time were slower, so much slower, then maybe she would not have agreed to let him take the serum_.

     Yet, other days, she wishes time were faster. Those nights, freezing to death in disease-ridden trenches. Hours wasted under the hot, scorching sun, waiting for her target to appear. Sitting alone, sipping lukewarm tea from her flask, wondering how her sister is, allowing her mind to occasionally drift off to her former lover. She doesn’t necessarily _miss_ him anymore. Steve will always be a major influence in her life, but over the months, the pain has eased; it’s easier to think of other things. Other _people_. Angie Martinelli has been spending a great deal of time in her head lately. Each time she conjures the image of her face, Peggy tends to stiffen––falling in love, for her, has always ended with tragic results.

     Whenever she’s up at night, guarding the camp, she imagines what Angie must be like to live with, to live _life_ with. Undoubtedly, she'd be cheerful. Full of excitement. _Childish_ , almost. Peggy finds all Americans are. There’s something so––what’s the word–– _wild_  with Americans. There’s always something to smile or laugh about. Very much unlike England. Loyal to her country, Peggy does miss it, of course. The culture, the way the English behave, the food. While the Americans and the English do speak the same language, it’s so _different_ here in America. During her first few months upon arriving, Peggy was terribly homesick, as much as she hid it. It _was_ tricky adapting to American lifestyle, but there were the odd few individuals who made it easier to settle in.

     Even though he rubs her the wrong way, and she’d like nothing more than to punch his smug, pretty face, Howard Stark managed to warm up to her. He is a good conversationalist––when she is in the mood––and, occasionally, he _is_ funny too. Then, of course, there’s Steve. Steve was sweet. He was _really_ sweet, and lacked the unbearable traits most Americans seem to possess. His compassion, determination and loyalty were what she found so appealing about the gentleman, and while it did all start of as a crush, things between them picked up drastically fast. Alas, fate simply wouldn’t have it, and it’s always haunted her whether his death was on her. 

     Angie, on the other hand, has the typical American traits Peggy isn’t so keen on. Or, _shouldn’t_ be. More accurately, Angie isn’t her _type_ , which just makes things so _bloody_ confusing for the young agent. If Peggy were to describe Angie, she’d have to say she was like a ray of sunshine. She lights the room with her girlish smile, adorable face, and flirtatious remarks. Peggy recounts the injury across her cheek, and is still convinced it was inflicted by her father. If she ever does return to the States, Peggy will be sure to study into their relationship. Whether she can solve the issue is another matter and, frankly, it isn’t of her business. Still, the very thought of that _bastard_ laying a finger on somebody so delicate and _kind_ ––

     Sometimes, _sometimes_ , Peggy wishes time would just _stop_ altogether.

 

 

     ‘You have beautiful aim.’

     Dorothy––or, _Dottie_ as she insists––wears a fetching smirk, and Peggy isn’t so sure if she’s making fun of her, or actually paying a compliment. 

     ‘That vehicle was moving fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a clean shot from a fellow agent.’

     ‘Thank you.’ Maybe it _is_ a compliment.

     ‘Do you feel satisfied?’

     ‘For what?’

     ‘Killing him. Your own ally, who could have turned traitor at any moment.’

     ‘I do what I have to do to serve my country.' Automatic. She doesn't think; she just says it without effort, and without character. Peggy is not in the mood to talk.

     ‘How many men would you kill for the greater good?’ Neither say a word. A chill passes between them. Suddenly, Dottie appears sinister in the moonlight. ‘A hundred? Two hundred? How about a thousand?’

     Peggy doesn’t answer, and continues cleaning her gun. Dottie’s smile broadens.

     ‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed. Loyalty comes in all different forms; yours just so happens to be colder than others.’ 

     ‘I follow orders, that’s what I do,’ Peggy says softly, the cloth stopping midsection of the gun’s snout. ‘If I’m ordered to shoot a man who might reveal our identity, then, yes, I’ll shoot him.’

     ‘Utilitarian?’

     ‘Realist.’

     Dottie watches her, completely still. ‘Do you have a husband waiting for you at home?’

     At that, Peggy smiles, and returns to her gun. 

     ‘I thought not,’ Dottie says, stepping past her. ‘I don’t think any man can make sense of you, Peggy. That’s one thing we both have in common, at least.’

 

 

     They’re ambushed, but it is not Nazis. 

     An SSR agent’s head explodes with blood, and immediately the survivors retreat into the bushes. From her hiding spot, Peggy scans the area, but doesn’t spot any sign of a shooter, sniper, or anything of the sort. She can see Dottie, undoubtedly thinking the same as she. The road is quiet, and the dead agent’s blood leaks into the grass. 

_Bang_!

     A bullet misses an agent by a mere inch, but Peggy soon spots the attacker. She recognises the uniform immediately, but doesn’t allow the shock to stop her from raising her gun, aiming at the man’s head, and firing.

     His yell is quiet from where she is, and she watches his body fall forwards. Peggy ducks for cover, and notices Dottie is facing the opposite direction. Before Peggy sees it, Dottie shoots another soldier and there’s a long, _long_ wait as the agents hear and search for more targets. 

     Peggy curses under her breath.

     It’s _Hydra_. How on _earth_ did _Hydra_ know of their location? And _why_ are they interested in the first place?

     Also, **_Hydra_**?!

     Captain America had put an _end_ to that wretched organisation. 

     Peggy doesn’t realise one of her coworkers has revealed himself, until it’s too late. A _Hydra_ agent jumps out of his hiding spot, sniper raised, and apparently the agent doesn’t notice. Peggy foolishly yells at him to _get down_.

     It feels like a bee sting.

     The sharp point of a knife twisting into her ribcage. 

     Peggy is shot.

     After a few seconds, the ache and agony makes her body flinch, and she collapses to the side. She hears somebody yell her name, but she can’t be certain who it is. The stupid agent who revealed himself has fortunately dashed for cover, not that it’s done Peggy any good. A fire of bullets echo the area. Peggy groans, crawls towards a few inches away and leans her back against its trunk. She presses a hand onto her bullet wound. Blood pours between her fingertips, and all the while she mutters how stupid, stupid, _stupid_ she was.

     The rain of bullets cease. She hears speedy footsteps. Dottie is suddenly kneeling before her, calm yet concerned. Peggy watches as she pulls out a knife, and cuts out a large piece of material from her trouser leg. ‘It’s cleaner than your hand. Press it against the wound.’ Peggy doesn’t need to be told twice. The other agents arrive at the scene. There’s little to no point waiting around. They have to get to the coast, otherwise the ship will leave without them, and Peggy sure as hell isn’t going to die _here_.

     ‘We need to get the bullet out––’ an agent starts.

     ‘Are you bloody mad?!’ Peggy scolds.

     Dottie places a hand on the woman’s shoulder, in an attempt to calm her. ‘We need to minimise the bleeding. The bullet isn't our concern right now. Peggy, are you okay walking from here?’

     ‘Yes, I’m _fine_. We’re wasting enough time as it is.’

     ‘Run on ahead. Be careful, though. We might bump into more of those rats.’

     The other agents obey, scattering off. Dottie helps Peggy to her feet, slinging her arm around her shoulders. Peggy moans, clutching the cloth to her wound. 

     ‘Are you all right?’

     ‘ _Smashing_ ,’ Peggy mutters. She and Dottie follow the others, and she presses the cloth harder against the bullet wound. In a matter of minutes, the cloth is soaked in her own blood, and she gets increasingly dizzier. More out of breath. Dottie is pushing her forwards, and suddenly it’s unbearable. _The pain, the effort, everything is so fucking unbearable_ and Peggy needs to _stop_.

     The coast is near. She can smell the sea, the salt; hear the waves––

     ––Her knees hit the ground. 

     ‘I’m fine,’ she heaves. The pain has gone; she’s numb all over. All Peggy wants to do is go to sleep. She needs to rest. She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, _she’ll be fine_. ‘You need to get home; go home––’

     ‘And what am I supposed to tell your lady friend?’

     Peggy glances at her, frowns. ‘Wha...?’

     ‘Didn’t think I’d catch you writing those letters?’ Dottie shakes her head. ‘Honestly, I thought better of you. Are you really the type to give in?’

     ‘You don’t know me,’ Peggy murmurs. She groans, trying desperately to stand to her feet, but she can’t. Oh, God, _she bloody can’t_. How pathetic. How _weak_. Steve would be _embarrassed_. Angie would be heartbroken. Peggy tenses. _Angie_. No. No, no, no, she _promised_ she’d get back. She’ll get back. 

     Angie is waiting for her.

     Grasping Dottie’s hand, Peggy struggles, and a wave of agony pushes through her body. She yells out. Dottie keeps a firm grip on her, stopping the woman from collapsing. If Peggy collapsed, she would not get back up again.

     ‘We’re close. Don’t make me leave you here.’

     Whether or not Dottie is truly sincere, Peggy doesn’t know. Peggy doesn’t care.

_It’s just a bullet wound_.

     Peggy isn’t supposed to die. Not yet.

     So, somehow, _someway_ , she balances herself, and drags her own body to the coast. Sand meets her boots, and she can barely see, everything is a blur, everything is a dream, a very distant, but vivid dream. Someone is shouting at them. She feels someone’s hand on her wound, on her forehead, and then she’s lifted from the sand and flying––is she flying? Water moistens her lips, a sharp, stab of pain crushes through her ribcage and right before the pain knocks her unconscious, she thinks about Angie, about her smile, about her promise to be back home soon.

 

 

     If only time had stopped altogether.

     Then, maybe, she wouldn’t have got shot. She would have let that agent die for his foolishness. 

     Then, maybe, she wouldn’t have been sent to England. Grabbed and handled by doctors, and stuck in a hospital in London. 

     Then, maybe, she wouldn’t have broken her promise.

 

 

     Letters are too much hassle. Peggy doesn’t inform Angie about her whereabouts, or what has happened to her. She leaves it a mystery for the poor girl, and Peggy hates herself for her own cowardice. She cannot confess to Angie that she got shot on her way out of France, that she was so, so _stupid_ that she put another life in front of hers, and that is so _typical_ of Margaret Carter. So damn _typical_.

     By the time she is healed, nearly ready to be despatched, and sent back to the States, Peggy makes an international call. She tells the individual on the other end the number to Angie’s diner. The individual responds saying they will call back once they have contact. Peggy waits patiently, going over and over in her mind what she should say, how she should say it; _that she didn’t mean to lie_. 

     Angie, eventually, receives the call.

     There is a terrifying silence between them, in which Peggy is unable to speak. She’s never thought the war as something monstrous. Hell, the war is _necessary_. She would fight this war until her dying day if she has to but, right now, she _breaks_. Right now, she remembers the things she thought and felt when that bullet was lodged into her ribcage, causing her to pour a sea of blood. 

     That all she could think about was her lie. Her lack of ability to maintain her only promise. She was supposed to be back in the States a week ago.

     Yet, somehow, in the quiet, Angie knows. She knows it’s Peggy who has called for her.

     Her voice is small on the other end. ‘ _Peggy_?’ The agent hears a light gasp, of something breaking inside the younger woman, some sort of glee, some sort of terror, some sort of confusion, some sort of pain. Angie knows. She knows, for sure now, that Peggy is alive, that she is out there, _somewhere_ , and she has called her.

     But she is not with her, and for months, Angie never thought she would be again.

     How is it possible for the two of them to become so close through being apart?

     Peggy starts to shake.

     ‘ _Is that you?_ ’

     Hearing her voice makes Peggy clench her jaw, lean against the wall, scrunch her eyes closed, and sob silently. 

     She wants her here so much.

     She _hates_ not being with her. She hates, hates, _hates_ it.

     There’s a crackle. The line shatters momentarily, as if incapable of transmitting the grief they share for one another. Not only does Angie know Peggy has called her, but she also knows that, without meaning to, she’s made this strong, fierce woman cry. Just by the sound of _voice_. And that, _that amount of power_ , is traumatising.

     ‘ _Are you there?_ ’

     Peggy has to speak. She has to. If only it be a couple of words. 

_This is not Steve all over again. Angie shall not disappear_. 

     ‘Yes.’

     This time, Peggy doesn’t promise anything. She won’t promise she’ll come back to the States in good knick. She can’t promise a damn thing after what happened, and, by the grace of God, she’s fortunate to be alive. 

     But it’s not a promise Angie requires.

     She just needed to hear her. Just to be _sure_. 

     She already forgives her for failing to fulfil her promise. 

_Of course she does_. 

     Nothing. There’s nothing for a while, yet they keep the phone pressed to their ear. They don’t expect words, confessions. They don’t expect anything except each other. That’s all they need. For now, that’s enough. That’s _plenty_. 

     Finally, their silence is broken by Angie. She whispers faintly, barely able to manage the huge space between them.

     ‘ _Come back._ ’

     The phone _clicks_  softly when she hangs up. Peggy inhales shakily, and feels as if she’s being strangled to death. Hot tears pour down her cheeks, and she keeps the phone to her ear, desperate and lonely.

     It takes every ounce of energy in her to return the phone. Peggy rests her forehead onto the wall, her palms pressed to the solid barrier, and lets it all crash into her. _Every tiny, tiny, ugly memory_. Joining the army, being transferred to the States, hearing the news about her parents’ death, her sister’s miscarriage, her brother-in-law’s suicide, Steve’s death, her severed right shoulder, her mangled waist, the apparent return of _Hydra_ , and, lastly, inevitably, causing the heartbreak of a woman she loves.


	6. 06

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update? Already?!  
> Leah, you have no sense of _control_.

     The air raid sirens wail at approximately 1810. An hour ago, Peggy had been despatched from the hospital, after being informed that the next ship heading in the direction of the States will leave tomorrow morning. It is there she will return to duty. Peggy plans to visit her sister while she is in London, but the prospect of a reunion grows more and more unlikely. She _hates_ these ungodly sirens, hates the crowds as men and women push each other to get underground. 

     In the past, Peggy has ignored the warning, but this evening there’s too much panic, and she gets caught in the wave of civilians. She has no choice but to follow them into the shelter. A man’s fists keep poking into her back, irritating her bullet wound, and she feels tempted to turn around and slap him across the face. Peggy _hates_ it when people bloody well _push_ her around. Once she’s beneath, Peggy searches for the most isolated area, draping her trench coat over her shoulders.

     It is moist down here, and it stinks of body odour and mould. Peggy has endured worst smells, though––in fact, she barely notices the stench. Resting against the wall, Peggy watches a mother and child. The mother is fussing with her son’s jacket, telling him it’s all right, it’s probably nothing; they only want us to be safe. The child is sweet, almost oblivious to the chaos, and he looks up at Peggy with wide, blue eyes. Peggy smiles warmly, and focusses on her boots. 

     Chatter echoes the tunnel. A man’s drunken yells can be heard at the far end, and somebody tells him to keep it down. A baby starts crying, and there’s an elderly woman next to her who rocks back and forth on her feet. Peggy swallows, raises her head and looks at the civilians. All of these _people_. So many people. Heat reaches her cheeks when she realises the child is still staring at her in awe. It takes Peggy a moment to realise she’s wearing her army uniform, and that her face is scattered with light grazes, hence his fascination. Peggy tightens the trench coat around her, but this time doesn’t smile at him.

     The mother notices her son staring, and turns to Peggy. The two women acknowledge one another, but say nothing. The mother pulls her son closer to her hip, and the boy loses interest. A soldier, limping and smoking a cigarette, leans beside Peggy, ignoring her. She doesn’t pay attention to him. She’s watching the drunken man, who is now causing a disruption. He swears at one of the lads trying to calm him down. Peggy sighs impatiently, and is about to walk over and teach him a lesson, when the man beside her speaks.

     ‘I wouldn’t bother, _Signora_.’

     Peggy looks at him, brows furrowed. ‘I fear that idiot may hurt somebody.’

     ‘Let him.’ He exhales slowly, smoke passing his chapped lips. His dark eyes move to focus on hers, and his gaze is intense, but tired. ‘He’ll keep everybody distracted from what’s happening outside.’

     She thinks she recognises him. The hair, his nose, the shape of his face. It’s the moustache which puzzles her, though. Peggy watches him, and he watches her––curious as to why she’s staring––and then it hits.

     She remembers seeing this man in a photograph Angie gave her.

     Except he didn’t have a moustache all of those years ago, and he was considerably younger.

     ‘Forgive me,’ Peggy says, stepping over. ‘Are you Angelo Martinelli?’

     The soldier straightens. ‘ _Si_.’

     Peggy gasps. ‘Oh! I know your sister! Angela!’

     He widens his eyes, and the cigarette falls from his fingers. ‘My dear sister? Is she all right? Where is she? Is she _here_?’

     ‘No, no. She’s in New York. The last time I saw her, she was fine.’

     ‘And my father?’

     ‘Uh, well...’

     ‘Ah. Still a drunken mess, eh?’

     ‘Something like that.’ Peggy clasps her hands together. ‘I’m so pleased to finally meet you.’

     ‘Yes.’ He extends his hand for her to shake. She does. ‘A pleasure to meet you, uh...’

     ‘Carter––Um, _Peggy_. Peggy Carter.’

     ‘Peggy Carter,’ he repeats fondly. He frowns, and then, after a pause, he beams at her. ‘ _Peggy_! Angie spoke about you. You were a frequent customer of hers. At least you used to be. Gosh,’ he runs a hand through his hair. ‘That seems so long ago now.’ He chuckles, ‘Yeah, my sister was real keen on you, Peggy.’

     The agent decides to not read into that. Talking about Angie hurts a little, but there’s no one else Peggy would rather discuss. And she’s overjoyed to have finally met her brother––and here of all places! ‘I’m returning to the States tomorrow. Will you join me?’

     ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he smiles sadly. ‘I would, but...’ He waves the matter off. ‘Why are you here, _Signora_?’

     ‘I’m only here temporarily.’ Peggy avoids the question. ‘What am I to tell your sister? She’ll be delighted to hear you’re, well, _alive_.’

     He laughs. ‘Yeah... Yeah, I should write.’

     ‘Certainly.’ Peggy lingers a little awkwardly. She still can’t quite believe she’s met this gentleman, and she’s desperate more than ever to return to Angie and tell her all about it. She must write too! Their conversation over the phone had ended so abruptly, so _awfully_ , and Peggy needs Angie to know. 

     Angelo raises a brow. ‘I imagine you and Angie have become good friends.’

     Her heart pinches. Peggy wishes that were true, but isn’t so sure what she and Angie are now. After their silly moment in the park, things just... _spiralled_ out of control. Now whenever she thinks of Angie, it’s incredibly _consuming_. As if not having her here has made Peggy realise just how much the young woman means to her. It baffles her how easy it is to fall in love. She made the very same mistake with Steve.

     Or, maybe Peggy loves too easily.

     Nothing new there.

     ‘We have,’ she allows. Peggy waits for Angelo to say something, but he’s quiet, eyes on her. He knows there’s more, so she adds, ‘I promised to return to her weeks ago, but I’ve learnt that keeping promises are–– _pointless_. There’s no knowing what fate has in store for you.’ She rubs her arm with her hand. 

     ‘That’s true.’ He nods. ‘I’m pleased she has you. She needs a female role model in her life. Since Mama died...’ He stops. Peggy holds her breath. He shrugs. ‘Ange probably told you anyway. Since Mama died, our family hasn't really been... _great_. Admittedly, I had a lot to do with that.’

     ‘I’m sure you’re just being harsh on yourself.’

     ‘I wish!’ He sighs deeply, and lowers his gaze. ‘Ever since Father came back from the war, he––he’s just a monster! Him and I have never got on, but the way he treats us––’ He grinds his teeth. ‘I was a fuckin' coward leaving her alone with that bastard. God knows what he’s done to her.’

     Peggy is silent. 

     She was right. _She was right_. Angie’s father _has_ abused her. _He_ was the one who cut her cheek, and probably done more. An ugly creature _growls_ in the pit of her stomach, and her body shudders at the rage burning its way through her. Peggy clenches a fist, and restrains herself from making a comment.

     ‘I left because I wanted to fight, y’know? I _had_ to fight.’ He shakes his head, and mutters something in Italian. Peggy doesn’t understand him. He presses a hand to his temple, and speaks English again. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what he’ll do next––I just hope that one day he’ll jump out of the goddamn window.’

     The rage settles, and another emotion topples over it. Peggy softens her expression when she realises the poor man is about to cry.

     ‘Ah, damn it.’ He wipes his eyes. ‘Ange always took the beating. He’d always hurt her, not me, as if I was some prized jewel a’his. Y’know what that beast would do?’ He looks at Peggy now, eyes wide and looking defeated. ‘He’d put a baseball bat and a belt on the table, and then he’d tell her to choose.’ Peggy stiffens. ‘Ange was crazy; she’d always choose the belt, 'cos that made her bleed.’

     Peggy tears her gaze from him, eyes watering. 

     ‘I just stood and watched.’ A sob breaks from his throat. ‘I was too scared to move a fuckin’ muscle and now here I am in England, safe and sound. I’m a fuckin’ waste. Y’know, I sometimes just hope I die out there. At least, then, I’d get what I deserve––’

     ‘Don’t say such awful things.’ Peggy swiftly turns to him, and places her hands on his shoulders. Tears trickle down his cheeks, and he closes his eyes, smiling weakly. ‘Angie has been asking about you––she wanted me to find you! She still thinks about you, clearly. And I have no doubt in mind that she misses you. You _are_ her brother. I miss my sister everyday. There’s no reason to believe Angie doesn’t feel the same about you.’

     ‘You seem sure of yourself, _Signora_ ,’ he chuckles, and another tear escapes his eye. ‘If I were Angie, I’d hate me. I can’t protect her over here.’

     ‘From what I’ve seen of your sister, she’s perfectly capable of protecting herself.’ He smiles at that. But it fades all too soon. Peggy’s throat is aching, and her chest feels heavy as she tries to keep in her own woes. ‘You cannot die out there, Mister Martinelli. We aren’t sent out there to die; we’re sent out there to _fight_. After the war is over, you will return to New York and be with your sister again.’

     He nods rapidly. ‘Thank you, Peggy Carter.’ He frowns, concerned. ‘You’re crying!’

     ‘Ah.’ Peggy wipes her face. ‘I apologise.’ She forces a smile, and breathes. ‘I’ve become rather well acquainted with your sibling, I must say.’

     ‘Really?’ He grins. ‘So her constant nattering hasn’t scared you away?’

     ‘No. Quite the contrary!’

     They laugh. How bizarre that, beneath the ground, hiding away from German bombs, two complete strangers can find joy about the same person. Angie may be miles and miles away, but her presence is strong wherever Peggy goes. Especially now. Angelo comes forward, and holds Peggy’s hand. 

     ‘When you see her next, please tell her I send my love.’

     ‘I shall. I promise.’

     ‘And you must promise me that you _will_ see her soon. I’m sure she misses you too.’

     ‘So it would seem.’ Peggy squeezes his hand. 

     ‘I’m sorry we had to meet this way.’ As soon as those words pass his lips, the ground above them shudders violently as a bomb hits nearby. Some civilians yell out in fear, and most lose their balance slightly. Angelo wraps an arm around Peggy’s wait and draws her near. ‘I really hate the fuckin’ Germans.’

     ‘Hear hear.’ Another blow. The wall crumbles slightly from the impact. 

     ‘Will you return to the States for good?’

     ‘I doubt it. I may be needed elsewhere soon.’

     ‘I suppose.’ He smiles sympathetically. Peggy realises he has Angie’s eyes, and her throat narrows. ‘Well, like you told me, Peggy Carter, you can't die out there. You gotta promise me you’ll die an old lady, in your own warm bed. A family crowding around you. You got that?’

     She lets out a breathy laugh. ‘I’ll try my best.’

     ‘Then so will I.’

_Bam_!

     The walls vibrate viciously, and more people yell out in surprise. Angelo laughs nervously. Without really knowing why, Peggy finds his hand again, and they remain holding each other until the bombings cease. A sigh of relief passes the tunnel, however the two soldiers are quite reluctant to see each other go.

     Hand-in-hand, they leave the tunnel, and once outside, they both see the damage. Smoke, dust and death looms the air. The darkness has never appeared more evil. The remnants of buildings are at their feet, and more children are homeless. A fire is ablaze. An orphan dashes past the couple, dirty-faced and pale. 

     Both soldiers turn to each other.

     ‘Good bye, _Signora_.’

     ‘Good bye.’

     They embrace each other quickly. The crowds are heavy around them. ‘Tell Ange I’ll be home for Christmas.’ She watches him turn around on his heel, and walk away. As she hurries out of the crowds, eyes heavy with tears, the implication of his words shatter into her and she has to stop herself from breaking down then and there.

     Later, a roof over her head, a scrap of paper in hand and a pencil, Peggy writes, first, to her sister. She tells her that she has been sent to England temporary––neglecting to mention why––and that she is deeply sorry she hasn’t had the time to visit her. She asks about her sister’s wellbeing, and that she hopes to see her soon. Peggy seals the envelope, scribbles her sister’s address, and then turns to her last piece of paper.

     There’s far too much to say, there’s far too much to confess, so she makes it simple.

_Angela,_

_Currently, I’m in London, and you won’t believe who I met!_  

_Your brother is a charming gentleman. Have your ears been burning? We spoke very fondly of you––_

 

     Peggy stops because she needs to cry a little. She doesn’t know what’s making her feel so emotional. Maybe it’s everything all in one go. Maybe it’s the war as a whole, maybe it’s how fate has somehow managed to bring Peggy and Angelo together––oh, surely this must have been planned!

She recalls their broken telephone call.

 

_––I leave England tomorrow, so by the time you receive this, I may already be with you._

_I pray for that small mercy at least._

_Yours, for eternity,_

_Peggy_

 

     She grins. Angie will like that little tease. Even if it rings true.

 

 

 

     Approximately One Week Later.

 

 

 

     An anxious, young woman is pacing the platform, and is starting to irritate the retired gentleman. Plus, her Italian mutters are intolerable. He doesn’t appreciate the fact she isn’t speaking in _his_ language. All he can hear is gibberish, and he wonders if she’s reciting a speech, or if she’s just mad. He pulls a face at her as she walks past him for the seventieth time. It comes to the point where he has to sigh obnoxiously loud, in which he finally catches her attention.

     Unfortunately for him, Angie Martinelli is in a very tense mood, and she’s not feeling so _sweet_ today. ‘ _Yes_?’ She snaps.

     He immediately regrets his behaviour. ‘Uh, n––nothing.’

     ‘ _Good_.’ And, then, she continues pacing and muttering Italian as if no disturbance ever happened. 

     Angie is not rehearsing a speech, nor is she mad. Well, the latter is debatable, but Angie has her own reasons to be acting so nervously. In ten minutes, the train will arrive, and she has waited for this train for _months_. She has waited for this train to arrive into the station, and for a very particular, special individual to step off said train and smile that brilliant smile of hers.

     Oh, God, if she vomits in her panic, Angie will hate herself for the rest of her life. 

     This morning, she spent _way_ too long on her appearance. But Peggy deserves to see a pretty image when she steps off the train. She deserves to have _somebody_ who puts in the effort to please her. She deserves something _nice_ for a change, and Angie very much intends on being that _nice_. Even if she’s a bubbling mess of emotion. 

     In her hand are a bouquet of violets, and she’s reconsidering.

     Too obvious. _Too obvious_.

     Silly girl.

     Ah, hell, it doesn’t matter. Angie returns to muttering Italian, telling her it’s fine, it’s fine, she’ll be fine, she won’t vomit all over Peggy, she won’t do that, nope, she won’t. Okay, she probably will. Yes, she will vomit all over Peggy and then everything will be _ruined_ and Peggy will never look at her again!

     Several people near the platform when the train approaches. Angie clutches her violets tighter, eyes darting to each carriage. Her heart lurches when the train comes to a slow halt. One of the carriage doors open, and then another, and then the next one down. Soon, the platform is a rush of passengers and relatives coming over to embrace their loved ones. Angie holds her breath and steps closer, eyes searching frantically for her own loved one.

     More and more people block her view. More and more people step off the train, and step onto the train, and Angie still can’t find Peggy anywhere. She stands still, after a while, violets to her chest, and then, _then_ , she starts to worry. 

     Peggy is not here.

     She didn’t make it. She didn’t make it. _Oh, no, Oh, God, please don’t do this to me again_ ––

     ‘Excuse me, miss.’

     Angie freezes. She knows that voice. That sweet British accent. 

     Heart in her mouth, Angie turns to face Peggy, and it’s as if not a day has passed since they last saw each other. The only signs of their distance are the tired bags under Peggy's eyes, and the light grazes across her wonderful face. But she still looks like an image; still beautiful. Still Peggy Carter. And Angie Martinelli is on her tiptoes, exasperated. 

     ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine, but I can’t seem to find her.’

     Cheeks reddening, Angie slowly smiles. ‘Maybe I can help? What does your friend look like?’

     Peggy mocks a gesture of deep thought. ‘It’s not so much what she _looks_ like. The biggest clue is her voice. She uses that frequently, and at a rapid pace. It’s also very loud. Quite upsetting to the ears.’

     ‘Maybe she’s like that because she actually doesn’t like you and wants you to stay away. It seems her plan is workin’.’

     ‘That’s the problem, really: _I_ like her.’

     ‘Ah.’ Angie nods, ‘Yes. _Huge_ problem.’

     ‘I think, despite what you assume––’ Peggy looks at the violets in Angie’s hands. ‘––She likes me too.’ She looks at her face. ‘But I may be mistaken.’

     This is her. This is really Peggy Carter. Alive. _She’s alive_. If Angie wants, she can reach out and _touch_ her and the temptation to do that overwhelms her. Her body _craves_ to be touched by Peggy, and she can’t stop smiling. Peggy’s little act is adorable, but Angie doesn’t have the patience to play along any longer.

     Angie throws herself at Peggy, and the soldier is taken slightly off balance at the sudden affection. Peggy’s heel stops her fall. She doesn’t waste a second to embrace her tightly, enduring such a thrilling euphoria, and she just cannot recall the last time she was _this_ happy. Angie feels good, soft and warm. They hold each other so fiercely neither can breathe.

     Both women come back to their senses, and speedily pull away. Angie is red in the face, and bursting with excitement. She thrusts the flowers at Peggy. ‘For you! D’you like them? I wan’ed to get you a present, and couldn’t think of anything and then I saw these and if you don’t like them that’s fine we can get somethin’ else––’

     ‘I love them.’ Peggy takes her flowers, and runs her finger across one of the petals. ‘I never took you for the subtle type, Angie.’

     Is she making fun of her?

     Angie is still shaking. She exhales. ‘C’mon.’ She grabs Peggy’s hand. ‘You’re all bruised up, and I need to feed you.’ Plus she has so much to tell her––the audition, what’s happening at the Automat, the latest gossip, her _brother_ , _Peggy’s letters_ and just _Peggy in general_. ‘Then you can berate me on how _subtle_ I am.’

     She smiles at her then, a sort of sad, but happy smile, as if she’s not too sure what to feel. Angie doesn’t let go of Peggy’s hand once while they leave the station, walk through the City, and hurry home together. 

     Neither say a word. Whatever needs to be said remains trapped within them, until they are in the privacy of their own shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard from somewhere that ladies, back in the day, used to give each other violets if there were any romantic feelings involved.  
> That is cute. And tragic. Christ.  
> I should note that Peggy's "yours, for eternity" line was a reference to a soldier who always signed off his letters to his sweetheart that way. My heart is about to break.
> 
> Apparently I'm updating faster than I thought. No room decorating is gonna stop me from writing my favourite lesbi––uh, _friends_. Yes. _Friends_.  
>  Urgh. These two will end me, and I'm okay with that.


	7. 07

     Something in the atmosphere _shifts_. The moment they step into the apartment, something changes. Everything is exactly the same, exactly as she remembers it, but something is _off_. Whether it be the fact neither have said a word to each other since meeting at the station. Or, perhaps, the fact it _has_ been so long since they last spoke, _properly_. As if most of their friendship has been built on letters and fear of one of them not coming back home. What creates tension in the room is that Peggy has only returned to the States temporarily. 

     It’s _all_ temporary. Every second she spends time with Angie is temporary, and they’re both aware of this. Yet, it’s not just _them_ which causes discomfort for the wounded agent. It’s the apartment itself. _Something isn’t right_. For the first time since they left the station, Angie speaks, asking if she’d like anything to eat and drink. ‘Just tea, please.’ The first thing she identifies is that Angie’s father is absent.

     That is not what makes her stiffen at the door, though. The absence of her father is a _good_ thing; Peggy wasn’t particularly keen on meeting the man, especially after what Angelo had told her. What makes her stiffen isn't her father's absence. It’s the belt on the table, neatly folded over. Peggy swallows, and raises her eyes to watch Angie prepare the tea. She’s only pouring for one. There is no baseball bat present. The belt is there, but the bat is not, and she has to clench her hands to stop shaking. 

     ‘Aw, Pegs!’ Angie beams at her, ‘What’re you doin’? You must be exhausted! Please take a seat.’ 

     She’s just stepped into the apartment, she’s only been with Angie for thirty minutes, and already Peggy is unnerved. At first, Peggy decides to ease into the topic about Angie’s father––she won’t rush into it. God knows how Angie will react if Peggy demands _why_ the belt is on the table, _ready_ to be used. The belt is on the table for _show_. An _option_. Peggy smiles at her, taking her tea, ‘Sorry––thank you.’ Their fingers brush. Peggy sips her tea. She does not sit down. ‘I hope you’ve been well.’

     ‘Mm-Hm.’ Angie’s eyes dart to the belt on the table. She exhales, and hurriedly walks over to hide it from view. ‘I kept your letters.’ Angie stops in the middle of the room, realises there’s no place to hide the belt subtlety. She keeps it at her side, and doesn’t move from her spot. Peggy watches her from the corner, mug of tea in both hands. Angie’s mention of the letters has put them both in an awkward position. ‘I got your telephone call, too...’ Angie trails off. The window is suddenly very interesting. 

     Peggy is calm. She drinks more of her tea. ‘I met your brother.’

     ‘Yeah. You mentioned that.’ 

     ‘You and he look alike.’ Peggy wishes Angie would look at her. ‘He sends his love.’

     Angie twitches a smile. Sad. Uncertain. She doesn’t believe he means that. ‘He doesn’t have to _send_ it.’ Her voice has tightened. She’s tense all over for a variety of reasons, and Angie is upset about this. She was hoping she and Peggy would have a lovely evening together––all the deep, thoughtful discussions could be left until later. But this is Peggy Carter, and it’s impossible to avoid her suspicions. Angie knows Peggy has seen the belt. This woman has eyes like a hawk and it’s terrifying. ‘Daddy is away.’

     That concludes _that_ problem. Peggy nods. ‘When will he return?’

     ‘Good question.’ Angie laughs. Peggy doesn’t. They lock eyes, and Angie’s smile falls. She exhales again, shakily. ‘I auditioned for a play––’ She’s trying too hard to change the subject, so she stops it there. Peggy has raised her brows at the mention of an audition, but Peggy isn’t necessarily interested––not at the moment. Her focus is on the belt in Angie’s hand, the relationship between Angie and her brother, _and_ she wants to know where Daddy has gone off to this time. Peggy’s violets are still in her hand, and Angie feels her eyes sting. She shouldn’t have bought her flowers, not when she knew this would happen. 

     Oh, she should have removed the belt from sight before she left to meet Peggy! She should have checked the apartment for any signs that her father had beat her again and again and again and again and again––

     ‘Angie.’ Peggy’s voice is much too soft. Her voice does not reflect her eyes: suddenly, her eyes are like _steel_. Hard and cruel. Is this how Peggy looks at her coworkers? At the men and women she interrogates? Is this how she looks when she puts the gun to a man’s face, and blows his skull into tiny pieces? Is this the face of a killer? Angie backs into the wall. Peggy hesitates, and then she places her mug of tea down. 

     Immediately, Angie wants to run out of the apartment and hide.

     ‘Your brother was very kind. He told me a great deal about you.’ Angie looks at her impatiently, as if to say–– _get on with it. Ask what you want to ask. Mention the belt. Point a finger at Daddy like everybody else does_. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your mother.’ Angie curls her lips. She’s not good at hiding her thoughts, her emotions. Angie has always been a sensitive girl; she cries too easily. She’s not like Peggy. And whenever she feels threatened, cornered, or bullied Angie just goes _quiet_. ‘Why are you looking at me that way?’

     Angie is startled. She widens her eyes, and wraps her arms around herself. ‘What way? I didn’t––I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was lookin’ at you a certain way.’

     ‘Are you afraid of me?’

     She laughs again. Short and weak. It’s not really a laugh. ‘I think everyone’s scared a’you, Pegs. You got this _way_ of making people feel––’ She’s careful with her words. Peggy is listening to her. Intently. ‘–– _little_.’

     ‘I don’t want you feeling little around me, Angie.’

     Peggy takes one step forward. Angie takes one step back. Nothing happens for a moment. And then Peggy’s face contorts with pain and frustration. She’s too tired. She’s much too tired. Angie regrets taking a step back. She regrets criticising Peggy’s behaviour. This poor, _poor_ woman. She’s just returned from England, from _France_. She’s had to _kill_ somebody, her own ally, and now she returns to someone she cares deeply for who won’t even _look_ at her. 

     ‘I’m sorry.’ She’s not. ‘I’ll leave you be.’ _I know where I’m not wanted._

     Peggy is still holding onto her flowers. Angie’s gift. The younger woman is stunned while she watches Peggy move to the door. Something pushes her forwards. Angie doesn’t think she’s ever ran so fast in her life. In less than a second, she’s slammed her back to the door, blocking Peggy from escaping. The agent jumps back, hand to her heart. 

     ‘Christ, you frightened me!’

     ‘I don’t want you to leave! I’m sorry––I––I don’t want you to leave me _again_ , Peggy, not––Please don’t go away.’

     ‘I scare you.’

     ‘Not always!’ Angie insists. She’s begging now. Pleading. She’s angry, too. She’s angry that Peggy would walk away without a fight. 

     That is not the Peggy Carter she knows! Peggy Carter _lives_ for a fight. She fights every day of her life. And maybe that’s the problem: maybe, when around Angie, that is the only time in which Peggy can retire. Lie back, and just _forget_. The only time she can truly relax. Angie isn’t a fight. That is one thing Peggy has always made sure of. And, yet, somehow, it’s all fallen apart and the agent can’t handle it. Angie softens her expression. Peggy’s shoulders are a little slumped––which is unusual. She always stands upright, shoulders back. What is happening to her?

     ‘You saw the belt,’ Angie chews on her lower lip.

     ‘I saw the belt.’

     Angie feels like crying again. ‘ _Peggy_.’ And, then, she does, as if her name is the trigger. Angie wipes her hands over her eyes. Peggy just stands there. Watching. She just _stands there_ , eyes focussed, face gentle and troubled. She’s so _quiet_. ‘I dunno what my brother told ya, but you don’t _have_ to get involved in everybody’s problems. Ya can’t be everybody’s hero, y’know? Let alone _mine_.’

     ‘Did he hurt you?’ She can hear her voice. But Angie can’t see her. There are too many tears clouding her view. 

     ‘He didn’t do nothin’!’

     Peggy is silent. There is a long pause while she allows Angie to stop crying. And it comes to the point where Angie doesn’t know _why_ she cries. Is she really crying about her father’s abuse? Surely not. She’s so used to it by now. So, _why_ is she crying? Because Peggy knows? Or, is it the way Peggy is looking at her? So sorry and conflicted and _lovingly_ , Angie just can’t react properly. Will Peggy have her father arrested? Will she walk away? If Angie were to just tell her _everything_ , what will Peggy do to her?

     Maybe she’s crying because of Peggy. Their letters, that wretched telephone call, and the fact she met her brother through fate. _Yours, for eternity_. Did she mean that? Was it a joke? Is Peggy like Angie? Does she fall in love with women too, or is Angie just wishing for the impossible? Are her feelings simply unrequited? God. There’s _so much_ racing in her mind right now. How can she tell which thought is making her cry?

     And Peggy is still just _watching_ her. Exhausted, weak and helpless.

     Maybe Angie cries for the both of them. Maybe she weeps the tears Peggy cannot shed. 

     ‘I care about you.’ Peggy is whispering. Her voice is soft. Angie isn’t crying anymore; her brows are furrowed and she looks angry. Her upper lip twitches. ‘I’m not exactly “hero” material. I’ll be honest. That doesn’t stop me from caring about your wellbeing, though.’ Peggy sighs. ‘You can imagine what your brother told me. I believe him. I’m certain what he said is true. Please don’t think I’m invading your privacy. That would truly be beastly of me. Yet, I saw the belt and I––’ Peggy stops. ‘I’m sorry.’

     ‘Why d’you English apologise about _everything_?’

     ‘Innate guilt, I suppose.’

     If Peggy is trying to make light of the situation, she is definitely failing. Angie wipes a stray tear with the back of her hand. ‘You’re a right pain in my neck.’

     ‘I’m sorry.’

     ‘There ya go again!’ Then, Angie _does_ start laughing, at first about Peggy’s silly apologies, and then about the violets, and then about their dumb argument, and just _everything_ muddles up into one and it’s hysterical. Why does Angie bother beating around the bush with Peggy? One way or another, Peggy will find out. Heck, she _knows_. Why lie anymore? ‘D’you wanna know what really goes on in this house?’

     Peggy blinks. She’s still.

     ‘It’s just me and my old man––how’s it’s always been. Some nights he gets back drunk, and snaps his cap––’ Peggy frowns. ‘He gets _mad_ , English. He gets home drunk and mad, and he hurts me.’ She pauses. ‘Couple a'night ago, he weren’t particularly happy with me.’ Her eyes fall onto the table, passed Peggy’s right shoulder. ‘Got the bat and belt out again. Told me to pick.’ The corner of her mouth twitches. ‘At least he loves me when he’s nice.’

     ‘I hate to ask, but the previous time he beat you: did you antagonise him in any way?’

     Angie looks insulted, but not for the most obvious reason. Somehow, Peggy has figured it out. She knows why Daddy was upset. ‘No.’ 

     ‘I really hate being lied to.’

     ‘I ain’t lying.’

     ‘No?’ Peggy grips the violets tighter. ‘Does he hurt you for _kicks_?’ Her lower lip trembles, and Angie tenses at the sight. She doesn’t know if Peggy is upset or angry. Probably both. It’s so hard to tell. Very slowly, Peggy says, ‘Every night, that was all I could think about. Him. Laying a hand on you.’ She breathes. Her eyes are dark, surprisingly warm. ‘I’m _tired_. I know what he does, but I need you to tell me. And I am _tired_. My patience is minimal.’

     ‘You gonna hurt me too, then? If I don’t give you what you want?’

     It’s how Angie says this. So _casually_. As if she _expects_ Peggy to––

     Peggy can’t even picture the atrocity in her head!

     ‘How dare you?’ 

     Angie doesn’t mean it. Of course. 

     ‘If you don’t tell me the truth, then––I don’t know.’ Peggy’s eyes are on her again. ‘Perhaps this _is_ none of my business.’

     ‘He doesn’t like the way I am,' she blurts out.

     ‘Excuse me?’

     Angie pulls at her sleeve. There's no going back now. It's out. ‘He thinks me odd. I _am_ odd.’

     ‘That’s absurd. You’re not _odd_ in the slightest.’

     ‘You gotta promise not to blow a fuse at me, Pegs.’ She’s speaking quickly now, hushed. She doesn’t know why she’s bothering, because the moment Peggy finds out _why_ Daddy beat her so _harshly_ a few days ago––’I kept it from him for so long, but, I dunno, I guess he read our letters or somethin’. Heard me talkin’ about you. I think he always knew I was odd, but didn’t wanna believe it.’

     Peggy is listening. Angie can’t tell what she’s thinking about, so continues.

     This time, she doesn’t look her in the eye. She _can’t_.

     ‘He hates me ‘cos I’m queer.’ 

     Angie freezes. She waits for it. She waits for Peggy to scowl, to step away, to look at her like a disease because _that is exactly what she is_. That’s how they all see her and people like her as. _Filth_. She is something Peggy is not. Peggy does not like girls the way Angie likes girls. Peggy is affectionate in her letters, but all girls are! But everything is so _confusing_. Nothing makes _sense_ anymore. 

     When Peggy doesn’t say a word, Angie grows desperate. 

     ‘Please don’t tell anybody! _Please_. I pray to God that Daddy don’t go on about it to anyone––’ Angie starts to regret her confession. ‘You insisted, so now ya know. Just please keep it to yourself; I don’t want anybody else knowin’.’

     ‘How long have you known?’

     ‘What? Uh––I dunno? I guess... _years_. I can’t remember when I _didn’t_ know.’

     ‘And he beat you for that?’

     She still can’t look at her, and she can’t tell whether Peggy is now in agreement with her father. ‘Uh-Huh.’ Her heart is thumping wildly in her chest. 

     ‘Why did you not choose the belt this time?’

     Angie still isn’t looking at her. She _won’t_ look at her.

     ‘‘Cos it’d sting too much––the bat is a different kinda pain.’

     ‘Do you deserve to be beaten for being queer?’

     ‘I guess? I dunno, I can’t––’ Angie shudders, and lowers her voice, ‘I can’t help the way I am, Peggy.’

     ‘What did you think of my letters?’

     ‘Sweet. I liked them––well, I liked the happy ones.’

     Afterwards, Peggy falls quiet. Angie waits. She waits for what she expects. She’ll lose her closest friend, and that’ll be that. Peggy will disappear forever, and already the pain tumbles into her chest, crushing her heart. Her own father won’t even look at her. And now Peggy too? What’s the point? What’s the _point_ now? It’s so quiet, too quiet, and Peggy still hasn’t moved, still hasn’t spoken, still hasn’t slapped Angie across the face.

     Because she won’t do any of those things.

     Angie watches the violets in Peggy’s hands. Slowly, cautiously, she looks up at her. Peggy is impossible to read, but she is not angry, offended or scared at what is in front of her. She looks nothing bad. She looks nothing ugly. Peggy is _calm_. No––no, Peggy is _relieved_. Peggy’s face is gentle, relaxed, and her eyes are so vivid with tenderness, Angie feels her cheeks burning. This is not what she expected at all.

     ‘I liked your letters as well,’ Peggy says finally. ‘I will stress this continuously until you believe me: please, don’t ever feel afraid in my presence. I am your friend, after all. I always have been. Your secret is safe.’ Angie’s lungs start to hurt. She realises she’s been holding her breath for too long, and she lets out a sharp exhale. ‘If you like, I can make it certain that your father keeps his lips sealed too.’

     ‘I’d––’ Angie doesn’t know what to say. ‘Oh.’

     ‘Say the word. It won’t be a problem.’

     ‘Why aren’t you mad?’

     Peggy blinks, and frowns at her. ‘Mad? Whatever for? You have said nothing in order for me to be mad at you. If anything, I am _grateful_ you have been so honest with me. I do hope you don’t feel intruded upon, Angie. I had to know.’

     ‘Just that––I just––’ Angie glances at the violets, then back at Peggy. What can she say? Peggy accepts her. Peggy accepts her _deformity_. _Peggy accepts her_. The revelation is a shock. She looks away, feels her heart tighten in her chest, so close to exploding into pieces, and when she looks at Peggy, _she looks at her_ , all that she is–– _she looks at Peggy Carter, and she_ ** _loves_** _her._ ‘I think you’re so wonderful.’

     ‘You are wonderful, as well.’ 

     It all thunders down on her: _every little thing_. The amount of murder she has committed herself to. Those she has loved––terribly––and has allowed to slip through her fingers. Abandoning her own family to fight for a cause which England may or may not even win. Fighting constantly–– _constantly_ ––up to the point where it _destroys_ her. Trapped in France, there were days Peggy felt she couldn’t go on anymore. Thinking about Angie––waiting for her, patiently––was what kept her alive. 

     Here she is, telling her darkest, most shameful secret. Yet, so light and pretty; so honest and _sweet_. Peggy knows if she walks out of that door, Angie won’t recover from the trauma. Peggy’s eyes linger on the redness of Angie’s cheeks; the colour has slowly blossomed across her pale skin, skipping her neck and reaching her collarbone, spreading over her sensitive skin. The smile has gone. Instead, Angie’s lips have risen in one corner, developing a dimple in her cheek––she gives Peggy a face of pure innocence. Angie looks at her confused, flustered and still a little afraid at what Peggy is capable of.

     This is the girl she wrote those letters to, who was her constant, even if she were not physically there. This is the girl she thought about day and night, the girl Dottie mentioned, in an attempt to encourage Peggy to survive. This is a significant individual in Peggy’s life, whom even strangers are aware of. More importantly, this is somebody she trusts, feels close to, and feels _safe_ around. It’s a fact Peggy will not _ever_ take for granted.

     ‘Oh, darling.’

     Peggy has come forward and almost lifts Angie off her feet, she embraces her so wholly. Immediately Angie gently pushes herself into the other woman, returning the affection with equal tenderness. They remain pressed to one another, leaving no gaps, as if sewn together. Made one. Angie squeezes Peggy, just hard enough for the agent to notice. She holds onto her so fiercely, her hands begin to ache. Peggy feels _so_ good. Angie’s muscles relax when Peggy’s hand caresses her back, up and down in long, slow motions. They lean into each other, hold each other, and neither wish to pull away.

     At least, Angie doesn’t, because she doesn’t want to allow Peggy the opportunity to take a step back. She prefers her closeness. The close contact. She prefers her near, she prefers her body on hers, her hand stroking her back––she prefers all of this over Peggy’s distance. She prefers everything about Peggy over everything about everything.

     So it is, of course, Peggy who breaks their contact. 

     Her red lips are in a smile. A _real_ , _full_ smile. It’s the first time Angie has ever seen her smile this way––and it’s all for her.

     Angie’s heart flutters.

     ‘You need to tell me about the audition,’ Peggy states. She carefully takes the belt from Angie’s hand. It slips out of her grip effortlessly. Peggy stands before her, one hand carrying the violets Angie gave to her. Her other hand carrying the belt which has been slashed across Angie’s sore back countless times. It is an astonishing image. Yet, it reflects all that Peggy is: loving, but lethal. ‘And anything else that I have missed.’ 

     Angie imagines walking over to kiss her lips.

     ‘Sounds like a plan,’ she agrees. 


	8. 08

     ‘Alas, now, pray you Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns, ‘Twill weep for having worried you––’

     ‘ _Wearied_.’

     ‘–– _wearied_  you. My father is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself; He’s safe for these hours.’

     ‘Not bad. Although it’s  _three_  hours.’

     ‘Really?’

     ‘Let’s keep going. I’ll be Ferdinand, if you like.’ Still seated at the settee, Peggy starts to read from the script. ‘O most dear mistress, The sun will set before I shall discharge What I must strive to do.’

     ‘If you’ll sit down, I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, somethin’ or other and I’ll carry it the pile.’

     ‘No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Then you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by.’

     Angie hesitates, pacing the room as she tries to recite her words. Peggy glances up from the script when she realises she’s lost. However, before Peggy can interject, Angie remembers: ‘It would become me, As well as it does you: and I should do it With, uh,  _ease_ ; for my will is to it, And yours it is not–– _Against_. No, wait––’ 

     ‘You got most of it correct. It’s: with  _much more_  ease; for my  _good_  will is to it And yours it is against.’

     ‘What d’you think?’

     ‘Of Shakespeare or your acting abilities?’

     ‘All of it.’

     ‘Well, I––’ Peggy flips over a few pages, ‘––It’s  _gripping_.’ Angie slumps her shoulders. ‘No, really. Might I suggest you remember your lines?’

     She nods. ‘I know. Just––it’s hard to find the time when there  _is_  no time.’ Angie sits down beside Peggy. ‘The double shifts at the L&L don’t help neither.’

     ‘You’re very convincing,’ Peggy smiles. ‘Regarding your expressions. I can see why they picked you.’

     ‘You make quite a convincin’ Prince yaself, Pegs.’ She smirks cheekily, and takes the script from her. ‘It’s been a real long time since I got any big parts. I mean, it’s not  _big_ , but it’s  _big_. It’s not Broadway, but it’s as good as I’m gonna get.’

     Angie fiddles with a loose thread on her cardigan, conscious of Peggy watching her. It’s nice to be noticed, but she can’t stop the blush from spreading across her cheeks. Peggy doesn’t have to do much in order for Angie to feel timid, and she is  _not_  the timid type. She’s aware of Peggy turning on the settee to face her properly.

     ‘You’re better than you take credit for. Mind, I don’t watch plays often, but, even without the costume and the stage, you pulled it off well.’

     ‘Thanks, Peggy.’ Angie meets her gaze. ‘You’re full of it.’

     Peggy chuckles. ‘Perhaps. I’m only being honest. When is the play?’

     ‘In a few months time. Why?’

     ‘I want to come along and watch you, of course.’

     ‘I’ll buy you a ticket!’ Angie grins. ‘Hell, you might be our only audience.’

     ‘I doubt that.’ Peggy’s eyes lower to the settee. She hopes she’ll be in the States during Angie’s play. There have been many times in the past where she has been sent out on missions without any notice in advance.  _Too_  many times that has happened, and it’ll happen too many more times in the near future. She inhales. ‘Does your father know about your play?’

     At the mention of him, Angie stiffens. ‘No, I don’t really think he should know about that.’ Neither discuss the matter further. ‘Peggy?’

     ‘Yes?’

     ‘When you met my brother, what was he like? Was he okay?’

     Peggy nods. 'Indeed. Your brother was very kind to me, and I was sorry to see him go. He misses you a great deal. I encouraged him to write to you, so I hope he does. You both have a lot to discuss, I’m sure.’

     ‘Yeah.’ She squints her eyes at her for a second. ‘What did he say about Dad––my father?’

     Peggy parts her lips to speak, then hesitates. She closes her mouth and faces forwards. What exactly does Angie want to know? Peggy chooses her words carefully. ‘Nothing that I am not already aware of. I was only with your brother for an hour or so. We barely had the chance to talk about anything major.’

     ‘Are you gonna report him? My father? Is he gonna get arrested?’

     ‘Unfortunately, I can’t simply  _do_  that. It’ll involve further investigation and, as much as I hate to say it, I don’t possess enough authority in order to have your father thrown behind bars.’ Peggy tightens a fist in her lap, Angie notices. ‘What he does to you––you must understand–– _is_  wrong. I can’t stand back and allow him to beat you.’

     Somehow they’ve landed onto another sensitive topic. Angie exhales heavily. ‘It’s nothin’ unusual, Peggy. I really––Look, I really want you to keep this all hush hush, all right?’ Peggy’s expression doesn’t change. Angie swallows. ‘I kind’ve hope he’s right. That maybe my  _episode_  will blow over. I ain’t supposed to be this way. He says queers need to be disciplined just like kids; that’s the best way I’ll learn.’

     ‘Learn  _what_?’

     ‘I dunno. I guess––learn how to stop being this way.’ Angie is pulling at the loose thread. ‘That happens to a lot of queers, right? One day they wake up and it’s all normal again.’ She shudders. ‘You know what they do queers? I seen them do  _things_  to ‘em, and I don’t wanna end up like that. I just wanna be normal again, and he seems to know the best way to do it. He says he’s gonna find me help; get a priest to help me and everything.’

     Peggy is impossible to read. She’s frowning, but Angie isn’t sure why.

     ‘Are you mad at me, English?’

     ‘No, of course I’m not,’ Peggy replies softly. ‘I’m  _concerned_. I want you to  _feel_  all right, not just  _be_  all right. Does that make sense? Is that where your father has gone? To find a priest?’

     ‘He knows a good one a way’s away. That’s why I got the place to myself.’

     ‘What will happen to you?’

     ‘Nothing! At least, I _hope_ not. Daddy promised he’d help me. I have somethin’ wrong in my head or somethin’ like that. He doesn’t really know the cause, and neither do I, but he says this priest might know.’

     Peggy blinks. She’s quiet. Angie wishes she would say what is on her mind. Before, Peggy was accepting of Angie’s–– _unnatural trait_. Does that mean Peggy thinks it’s okay for Angie to be this way? Does she approve of this priest arriving? Angie stands from the settee as if it has burnt her. Peggy doesn’t move. 

     What is she  _thinking_ about?

     ‘Anyway.’ Angie places her script aside. ‘It coulda been worse. I hear girls like me are kicked outta their own homes.’ She shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘I really don’t wanna talk about this much more.’

     Peggy is on her feet. Angie feels the few extra inches this woman has on her, and a shudder travels up her spine. She can’t peel her eyes away from Peggy’s. ‘I understand. I’m not too keen on discussing it either.’ Peggy steps over, and runs her hands down Angie’s arms. ‘You must not allow this priest to hurt you. I want you to tell me what he does, and what he says. Your safety is my top priority.’

     ‘You’ve done enough. I can’t ask more from you.’

     ‘Nonsense. This is nothing.’ Peggy’s hands fall to her sides. ‘I know of other women like yourself. I have known them personally.’

     ‘What happened to them?’

     ‘I am actually still in contact with several.’ Peggy smiles warmly. ‘I attended an all-girls school, and I spent most of my time around girls with–– _differences_. You don’t need to worry, dear. No harm will come to you; I’ll make that certain.’

     ‘How can you, when you might disappear again tomorrow?’

     Peggy’s smile wavers. She drops her gaze momentarily; a suspension in her confidence. It’s the first time in a while since somebody has silenced her with logic. It could be possible that one day Peggy will vanish for days, weeks, years, only to return to find Angie’s  _difference_  has been recognised. So much for playing the hero.

     But she’s never really been much of a hero. Not really.

     That was Steve. Steve was the hero; America’s Hercules. 

     Sometimes Peggy thinks that the wrong person died. The wrong person was in that plane. The wrong person took their life in order to save other lives. Sometimes Peggy thinks it should have been her on that plane, wishing Steve a final farewell––

     ––because he was wonderful, and he deserved to live.  _Christ, he deserved to live_.

     Looking at Angie now, she thinks this is Steve all over again. Why do the good always have to suffer? 

     ‘I’m sorry,’ Angie starts. ‘I don’t mean to sound––’

     ‘It’s fine. You’re right: I’m incapable of staying in one place.’

     ‘That’s not what I meant––’

     ‘As much as it pains me, I have to follow orders. I fight to protect lives, Angie; that’s what I do, and it usually results in me losing more than I gain. When I am here and I’m with you, you can be confident in knowing that your safety is vitally important to me.’ She raises her shoulders, almost as if in defeat. ‘When I’m away, your safety is still  _important_.’ Peggy stops, and tries again: ‘ _You_  are important.’

_ I wait, albeit impatiently, for the day I see your face again. _

_ You are wonderful as well. _

_ I leave England tomorrow, so by the time you receive this, I may already be with you. I pray for that small mercy at least. _

_ You have said nothing in order for me to be mad at you. _

_ Yours, for eternity. _

     ‘Did you mean it?’ 

     Her voice is small, quiet. Angie is daring herself to step into territory she is strictly forbidden from. Whatever she utters next may potentially destroy everything she has with Peggy, but the curiosity is  _killing_  her. To Peggy, is their friendship simply  _friendship_? Is Angie a pen pal? Amongst many? Is Angie’s imagination simply running off with her––once again––for a woman who is out of reach? 

     Peggy might have stopped breathing, she’s so still. Like a statue. ‘Mean what?’

     ‘In your letters. You wrote––you wrote things. Affectionate things to me. There was a letter where you talked about my brother, and you––’ Angie won’t allow her lack of confidence to get the better of her. Peggy may be taller, wiser, stronger, but it’s not enough to make the younger woman cower. ‘You said you were mine.’

     One could hear a pin drop.

     Angie’s breathing accelerates. She’s panicking. She’s nervous.

     ‘You said for an eternity, you were mine.’

     And maybe, _maybe so_ , maybe Peggy’s words are merely  _words_. They do not mean anything; not in the way Angie wants them to. Angie has already established that Peggy isn’t like her. Of course she’s not. Peggy is too perfect to possess any unnatural tendencies. She can’t imagine Peggy acting so backward, as much _as she does imagine it_. And she  _does_  imagine it. She  _did_  play along with the idea that Peggy fancied her. That they had something silly happening between them and, at first, it was all a game.

     She never really expected the game to be  _real_. For any of this to hurt. 

     She had wished Peggy loved her back.

     Oh, what a stupid girl! That was what Daddy called her. _Stupid, stupid, stupid Angela_. You can’t do anything right. You can’t even  _act_ , when that is your supposed biggest talent. You can’t even  _love properly_. Angie looks at Peggy, and looking at her is enough for Angie’s defences to crumble. She turns away, but not fast enough for Peggy to miss the lingering tear. And then Angie does what she’s been taught.

     She says sorry. She says sorry, because it is  _wrong_  of her to think of Peggy that way, and to think Peggy thinks of  _her_  that way too.

     They are just letters. Just words written by a lonely soldier.

     Angie sobs in silence, but her body viciously shudders at the impact of her grief. She allows Peggy to watch her cry, and this time, she really is certain Peggy will walk out of the door. She can accept Angie for who she is, but to accept her love for her? That is too much.  _That is far too much_. Peggy cannot be involved.

     A sharp gasp escapes her lips when two strong, yet feminine arms come around her middle. Peggy pulls Angie into her, pressing her back to her chest. She holds Angie securely while she cries some more. She doesn’t walk away. She doesn’t walk away because Peggy is too good, too wonderful, too lovely to do that. Peggy’s breath tickles the back of her neck, and Angie stops shuddering when Peggy kisses her–– _so_   _softly_ ––below her earlobe. 

      _Everything_  comes to a halt.

     ‘I meant it,’ Peggy whispers into her skin. ‘I meant every word.’

     Angie doesn’t know whether it is the relief or the shock of her confession. She feels her body relax, fall into Peggy’s embrace, and Peggy is so close, Peggy is so near, touching her, her breath on her neck, lips mere inches away––

     She reaches down to claim Peggy’s sore hands. Red and rough from the use of her artillery, the cold weather, the blood she has scrubbed away. She intertwines her fingers with hers, and clings onto her, desperate, needy, wanting. Peggy kisses her once more, delicate, ghostly, but  _alive_ ; she is  _here_. The trapped soldier in her letters. 

     ‘You  _are_  like me.’

     Suddenly, Angie doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

     Peggy hasn’t moved. Angie is dazed, overwhelmed, as she turns around and comes closer. They move in to kiss, but one of them retreats a little. _Stops_. Eyes closed, hiding away from whatever this is, whatever this could be, whatever this will be. Cautiously, Peggy’s lips brush against hers, and the desire to feel her completely consumes Angie. She's breathless at the sensation. Angie moans lightly, quickly kissing Peggy’s mouth. And then they kiss each other. A brief kiss. Almost demure. 

     A lingering moment passes; they hesitate. Take in what has just occurred. Their tender interruption ends due to Angie's youthful impatience. Angie grabs and pulls at Peggy’s collar, slamming her mouth onto hers. She kisses her so roughly, so possessively, she catches Peggy off guard. Peggy’s fingers grip onto Angie’s cardigan, and she allows herself to be kissed, to be handled so _passionately_. When Peggy finally responds with equal enthusiasm, it is a _relief_ , no matter the outcome. 

     Effortlessly, Angie gives in to the demand of Peggy’s kisses, parting her lips to allow entrance to her tongue. Angie’s hands slip from her collar, over her shoulders, leaning her weight onto Peggy as her arms loosely drape around her neck. 

     She kisses her. She kisses her. And she kisses her.

     ‘I  _am_  yours. For as long as you’ll have me.’

     The corner of Angie’s mouth twists upward in a short, pained smile. She drags her fingers through Peggy’s hair, trailing kisses down Peggy’s cheek, reaching her jawline. She kisses her face, her scattered wounds, pulling back only slightly so she can capture her lips. She repeats Peggy’s words in her head, until they’re stuck. _Permanent_.

     ‘That’s just as well, English,’ she breathes, ‘‘Cos I have no intention of letting you go right now.’

     Peggy’s hands smooth down Angie’s stomach, and rest at her hips, temporarily breaking their kiss. ‘Good. Although that may prove difficult at a later date.’

     ‘Please: I need you to stop talking.’

     Whether it truly is to shut her up, or to avoid Peggy’s absence altogether, Angie presses her lips to hers, silencing Peggy the only way she knows how.


	9. 09

     Around the time evening sets, the gunshot starts to burn. Peggy is familiar with the sensation; the ache. It’s not just the wound which hurts. Her entire _body_ reacts. It’s a gradual, slow pain, escalating from her ribcage, to her heart, down her arms, as if a weight has been pushed through her. Probably as a reaction, her right shoulder _stabs_. Her pinched bullet wounds are angry. Her entire body is angry; neglected and abused from the war. 

     Wincing, Peggy feels for the wound at her waist. The cool temperature in Angie’s apartment doesn’t help. Her wounds prefer lukewarm temperatures, not cold or hot. It’s the chill which keeps her up at night, though, sometimes sweating. Angie has disappeared into the kitchen to prepare themselves a warm drink, currently ignorant of Peggy’s agony. The agent stands to her feet, inhaling sharply between her teeth, and unbuttons her blouse. 

     She thinks the bullet wound is bleeding, but she really can’t be sure. Beneath her blouse, she wears a vest top, and her dog tags dangle from a chain around her neck. Peggy yanks up her top, inspecting the bullet wound. It is still covered in a bandage, wrapped tightly over her waist. Peggy gently places a hand to her sore skin, moaning. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_. Peggy has always had bad reactions to injuries such as these; her body can be fragile at times.

     To her relief, there is no blood. That doesn’t stop it from hurting so much though.

     ‘Peggy?’

     Taken slightly by surprise, Peggy turns to see Angie lingering in the doorway. She has a mug of hot tea in her hand, and her eyes are focussed on Peggy’s bandaged waist. Peggy pulls down her top, a little embarrassed. She isn’t keen on anyone discovering her scars. They are much too private, and Peggy is, generally, a very private woman. ‘Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she comes forward, trying her best to ignore the singe. 

     ‘Are you okay?’ Angie places down the mug of tea. ‘D’ya need to bathe it?’

     ‘No, no,’ Peggy insists. ‘I imagine I’ve possibly strained myself. It has been an exhausting day, what with all of the travelling and––‘ She cuts off there. ‘Don’t fret, dear. I’m relatively used to battle wounds.’ Angie frowns at her. 

     ‘You are, huh?’

     ‘Such is my work, I’m afraid,’ Peggy sighs.

     Angie softens her expression, walks over and pulls Peggy into a gentle embrace. Peggy leans into her, and already the pain in her waist starts to ease. ‘I want you to stay tonight,’ Angie murmurs. ‘If that’s okay. I should probably keep an eye on ya.’

     ‘I have nowhere else to be, anyway.’ Peggy smiles. ‘Your offer sounds lovely.’

     ‘My offers are always lovely,’ Angie teases, releasing herself from Peggy’s arms to look at her. ‘C’mon. I’ll lie ya down, play nurse if you like.’ She grins, taking the mug of tea. ‘Oh, and here ya go. Drink up, English. I’d hate for you to faint on me.’

     Peggy gratefully receives her drink. ‘Thank you, Angie.’ She cradles the mug between her hands. ‘And, thank you for letting me stay.’

     ‘Did’ya really think I was gonna kick you out?’ Angie brushes past, and taps Peggy’s elbow for her to follow. Angie falls quiet all of a sudden, and her smile is nervous; a hint of excitement peeking through. Peggy sips her tea, and follows the young lady upstairs.

     She’s never been to Angie’s first landing before. It’s nothing to look at, but Peggy quite likes the empty space. The carpet is in need of a clean. She thinks that’s spilt coffee, and dust is gathering in the corners. However, her eyes fall on a small table near Angie’s father’s bedroom. There are a couple of photographs in frames standing on the table. One of them is undeniably of Angie and her brother, Angelo, back when they were small children.

     Before Angie can guide Peggy to her bedroom, Peggy stops at the photograph and picks it up. Angie peers at her over her shoulder, smiles a little, and walks to join her. ‘I was hopin’ you wouldn’t see that.’ She winces at the photograph. ‘Christ, my cheeks were big back then.’

     ‘Nothing wrong with cheeks,’ Peggy smirks. 

     ‘Hm.’ Angie looks up at her, quite adoringly. She watches Peggy inspect the photograph, before the agent returns to it. Peggy meets her gaze. There’s a significant pause between them. After their confession to one another, the tension which constantly lingered above their heads has almost vanished. Instead, they are met with a comfortable silence, and it’s these sort of silences where Angie feels compelled to stand on her toes and kiss Peggy. 

     Neither women are particularly experienced with relationships, and, certainly, they’ve never quite had one like this. Peggy smiles against her lips, ‘You’re still terribly cute.’ 

     Angie retreats at once, pulling a face. ‘Funny, English.’ She lightens up, and pulls at Peggy’s sleeve, escorting her into her bedroom. Angie’s room still reflects her teen years. Peggy hovers in the doorway while Angie chucks off unnecessary clutter over her bed, babbling on about how she’s not _usually_ this messy.Peggy scans the walls: there are a few posters, two of them about movies which have already or are about to be released. Peggy recognises _Casablanca_. 

     The remaining posters are Italian. Peggy is fluent in French, German and some Japanese, but Italian is new to her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand what’s written on the posters. Yet there’s a hint of propaganda behind them. Peggy doesn’t ask what they’re about. Angie’s bookcase is small, but stacked, over half of her novels piled on top of the bookcase. Peggy recognises the scripts, neatly in a box, some scattered (or thrown?) across the room. 

     On Angie’s desk is a mirror, her makeup, another novel and a framed photograph.

     This is of a woman Peggy does not recognise. Yet she is remarkably alike to Angie. Peggy doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out who she is. Angie follows Peggy’s line of gaze, and almost on instinct grabs the photograph. ‘Ah.’ Her confidence crumbles a little. She smiles nervously at Peggy. ‘I saw this lyin’ around years ago. Got scared my Dad would throw it out, so.’

     ‘Would he?’ Peggy asks.

     ‘I––' Angie stops, and returns the photograph. She changes the subject. ‘Sit down. I’ll be right back.’ Angie hurries out of her bedroom, footsteps clattering down the staircase. Peggy carefully places her mug of tea onto the night stand, sits on the edge of the bed, and unties her shoelaces. She keeps her blouse unbuttoned, allowing her bullet wound some freedom. Kicking off her boots, Peggy––albeit uncertain––slides back onto Angie’s bed and makes herself comfortable. 

     She runs a hand over her waist. The hole of her wound can be felt beneath the vest top. She groans when another spasm erupts from the injury. Peggy sits upright against the bed frame, and turns her head when she hears Angie coming back. Peggy cocks a brow at the bottle of alcohol and two glasses in her hands. 

     ‘You ever tried Schnapps before, Peg?’

     ‘Uh… No, I don’t think I have.’

     ‘How ‘bout––' Angie puts the glasses and bottle on her desk, and pours. ‘––we have a competition.’

     ‘Never took you for the competitive type,’ Peggy mumbles, distracted by her injury again.

     Angie notices. She pulls a crooked smile. ‘Whoever drinks the most without getting sick wins. It’s simple, and you like simple, right?’

     Peggy ignores that snarky comment. ‘I’d love to try, Angie, but I don’t think I should be drinking.’

     ‘There’re a lot of things we shouldn’t be doin’,’ Angie says quietly. Peggy looks at her. Angie walks over to Peggy’s side of the bed, and passes the glass. ‘Beats that tea, I’ll tell ya.’ She cocks a brow. ‘Should help with the pain, too.’

     ‘Angie––'

     ‘Try it. If you don’t like it, then more for me.’

     Peggy rolls her eyes playfully and takes the drink. It smells nice, at least. Cautiously, Peggy raises the glass to her lips and has a small sip. She raises her brows. ‘Mm, not bad.’

     ‘Told ya,’ Angie grins, smitten. She hops onto the bed beside Peggy and easily downs, at least, half of her glass in one. ‘So, you gonna tell me what happened?’ She nods her head towards Peggy’s bandaged waist. ‘Or am I gonna have to guess?’

     ‘I was shot.’ Angie stiffens. ‘Not the first time, I assure you.’ Angie widens her eyes. Peggy realises she probably should have eased into this a little more gradually. ‘I swear, I’m fine.’ She laughs lightly, ‘I’ve suffered much worse.’

     Angie shuffles closer. ‘Where else have you been shot?’

     ‘Shoulder. Uh, back of my right shoulder. Fortunately, it was only a handgun.’

     No matter what Peggy says to comfort the younger woman, Angie’s concerned expression does not change. She’s already forgotten about her Schnapps. ‘Does your shoulder hurt right now?’

     ‘Slightly,’ Peggy allows. 

     ‘You’re a tough dame, Pegs.’

     ‘It is nothing. Really. You don’t need to look so worried.’

     Angie’s eyes travel to Peggy’s neck, a light frown forming, as she sees the dog tags. Peggy forgot she had those on for show. She must have forgotten to take them off! Peggy sits up properly now, covering the dog tags with her hand. 

     ‘I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to see that.’

     ‘It’s okay. _Peggy_.’ Angie takes her hand in her own. The dog tags come into view again. Silver, metal tabs on a chain, resting at her bust. It’s an ugly sight. ‘My brother came back home once––he wore ‘em too. I don’t want you hiding from me.’

     Peggy exhales. ‘All right.’ She squeezes Angie’s hand affectionately. 

     Finally, Angie distracts herself from the dog tags. She looks directly at Peggy. ‘Is that in case they can’t recognise you?’ She inhales. ‘I hear stories ‘bout soldiers getting mutilated; comin’ back with half their faces blown off.’ The air stiffens, and Angie’s jaw clenches. ‘Is that what might ‘appen to you? They’ll find your body––or, _bits_ of it.’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘That’s why you wear those things, isn’t it? In case that happens?’

     Peggy watches her, thinking what to say. She places her glass down, straightens, ‘Angie, that shan’t happen to me.’ She then adds: ‘It shan’t happen to your brother, either. Yes, it is true: some soldiers endure the most horrifying injuries imaginable. It is astonishing how they survive.’ Their fingers intertwine. Peggy caresses her thumb over Angie’s. ‘If I _were_ to die, then, they will know who I am. My dog tags are my identity.’ She lifts the thin chain, and the tabs dangle. ‘It does not ensure my death, though. Merely a… precaution, of sorts.’

     ‘D’you wear ‘em often?’

     ‘Frankly, I needn’t wear them when I’m off-duty. I neglected to remove them before I returned to the States.’

     ‘How did you get shot?’

     The change in topic doesn’t faze Peggy. ‘I can’t reveal the details, but, let’s just say I let my guard down. It was of my own fault.’ She’s not really _lying_ , but she won’t mention the foolish agent whom she tried to defend, or the apparent return of _Hydra_. Peggy averts her gaze to past Angie’s shoulder. She’s blank for a moment. Angie furrows her brows, but says nothing. Peggy lets go of her dog tags, sighs heavily. ‘I’m lucky to have survived. I’ve been shot _thrice_.' She smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. One of bewilderment. 

     Angie claims Peggy’s face in her hands and kisses her deeply. They don’t want to think about the three bullet wounds Peggy has suffered, the fact she may suffer more, or even _die_. Angie tastes of the Schnapps she’s been drinking, and it’s such a–– _youthful_ taste. One Peggy is unfamiliar with. She enjoys it, she likes it. Her hand presses into the small of Angie’s back, conscious of Angie moving onto her lap, her body soft, warm and inviting. 

     It has been a long time since Peggy felt so safe. Relaxed in the company of another.

     God, it has been _so long_.

     They kiss and kiss, holding onto one another, pressed together, until Peggy’s waist starts to burn again. She winces against Angie’s mouth, and a hand slips from Angie’s back to the bullet wound. Angie breaks their kiss, her blue eyes twinkling in the little light they share, yet wide with fear and worry. ‘Did I hurt you––?’

     ‘No, it’s not you.’ Peggy leans in to kiss her again. This one is quick. More of a reassurance. ‘Blasted bandage is––Oh, it’s much too tight. It’s crushing my ribs.’

     ‘Peggy. Can I help?’

     ‘I need it looser.’ Both women disentangle themselves, and sit apart. ‘Do you mind?’ Peggy asks, about to strip off her blouse and top. Angie shakes her head. Peggy stands to her feet, and the blouse falls down her arms and flutters to the floor. The poor woman muffles an agonised groan when she pulls off her top, flinging it aside. 

     The bandage is firmly wrapped around her middle, below her bra. It’s not just that which keeps Angie frozen in position. For the first time, she sees Peggy’s shoulder. Her pinched flesh. While Peggy busies herself with finding the end of her bandage, Angie walks over, silent and heart racing. All of these marks, scars and burns, Peggy has been hiding from her. 

     Somehow, her distortions make Peggy that much more beautiful.

     Angie carefully places a warm palm to Peggy’s back. Peggy stops. Angie’s fingertips brush across a thin, jagged scar, reaching towards another: larger, fresher, but clean. Her pale skin is littered with her past. Peggy still hasn’t moved. She feels Angie gently push her palm into a sore wound, and her eyes flutter shut at the touch. 

     Angie’s hand runs down Peggy’s back, meeting the bandage. She brings both of her hands around the white, fraying material and finds the end, stuck down with a piece of plaster. Angie hesitates, wondering if Peggy has consented to her untying the bandage. Peggy says nothing. Her eyes open slightly, conscious of where Angie’s delicate fingers are. Angie kisses Peggy’s shoulder, the bullet wound a minor dent against her lips. Peggy tenses; Angie’s warm breath tickles her skin.

     ‘They kept me awake for months,’ Peggy’s voice is flustered, hurried. Quiet.

     Angie believes her. She finds Peggy’s bullet wound at her waist, and pushes her palm into it. Peggy inhales. ‘Does that feel good?’

     ‘Mm-Hm.’

     ‘Pressure helps sometimes.’ A cool shiver travels up Peggy’s spine, causing her to shudder. Angie giggles and embraces her from behind. ‘You’re real pretty, Peggy.’

     ‘As are you.’

     ‘Let me help you out.’ With that, Angie undresses Peggy’s bandage, until her bare skin shows. There is a large, white patch at her wound, but neither women fiddle with it. All Peggy wants is for Angie to redo the bandage, but just make it looser. Both women achieve this in rapid speed. The pain is more tolerable, but it lingers. Angie comes around to face her when the bandage is secure. ‘How’s that?’

     ‘I’ll live.’ Peggy kisses her forehead. ‘Thank you.’

     ‘Sure.’ Angie returns a kiss of her own, on Peggy’s cheek. The agent pulls on her top, and blouse, without buttoning it up. ’Will you have trouble sleeping tonight?’

     ‘I don’t know. I hope not. As long as I remain reasonably warm.’

     Angie smiles. _I can help you with that_ , she thinks. ‘D’you have to hurry off anywhere?’

     ‘I will have to report for duty soon. Unfortunately, I can’t stay tomorrow.’

     Her smile quivers. ‘That’s all right. But, before you go running off into the sunset without me, at least say a good bye.’

     ‘Of course.’

     They return to the bed, and end up lying side by side, facing each other. Angie idly runs the back of her hand across Peggy’s cheek, twitching a smile when Peggy’s knee bumps into hers. She fiddles with the dog tags around Peggy’s chest, reading the initials: M.A.C. Her blood type. Her rank. Angie looks at Peggy, only to find the brunette has dozed off. Or, seems to have.

     She must be tired. Angie doubts she’s had a decent sleep in days.

     For the while, Angie watches her doze. Witnessing Margaret Carter asleep must be a rare right for anybody. Angie can see why. Peggy no longer appears as fierce. In fact, the woman seems several years younger, rather angelic. It is bizarre––if not, admirable––how this woman lying beside her can have so much authority over men, or _anyone_ for that matter. That she has survived three bullet wounds, amongst many other damages. 

     Her heart races when she remembers Peggy’s words: she’ll have to leave tomorrow. 

     That’s so soon!

     That’s so _fucking_ soon! How cruel. How unfair. Can’t she, at least, have another day off? Peggy needs rest, and plenty of it, and Angie stubbornly believes one _she_ can treat Peggy to such luxury. True, she does have a double shift tomorrow, but Peggy can sleep all day. She should be allowed to stay at her friend’s for as long as she likes.

     Can’t the bloody war go on without her?!

     Angie already misses her, and it’s a tug at her heart. No. Worse than that. It’s as if a large hand has stabbed its way through her chest, mangled her insides, grabbed her heart, and _squeezed_ so suffocatingly tight, her heart _explodes_. Tears sting her eyes. She doesn’t want a repeat of France. Of Peggy not returning home, of Peggy’s broken telephone calls, of––

     Before she realises what’s she’s doing, Angie snuggles close to Peggy, disturbing the older woman from her slumber. ‘Mmh?’ Peggy mumbles, welcoming Angie in for a cuddle. Peggy’s eyes close again, fatigue returning, until she’s conscious of Angie trembling. Immediately Peggy is alert. Her eyes shoot open. ‘Angie?’ She wants to look at her, but Angie is stubborn––if not proud––and refuses Peggy to see her tear-stained face. ‘My darling, what is it?’

     A hand clutches at Peggy’s blouse, and Angie tries to speak.

     She instantly regrets trying to form words.

     A cry breaks from her throat. Angie has blown her cover. She sits upright, distressed and annoyed and terribly upset. Peggy widens her eyes––her wonderful, lovely brown eyes––and kneels, leaning over to touch her. Angie retreats. Peggy decides to keep her hands to herself. She’ll wait for Angie to calm down, find her voice.

     But watching her cry––Peggy hates it when Angie cries, and she’s cried so much since her return! 

     Does Peggy cause her this much pain?

     ‘You don’t have to go back,’ Angie stutters, wiping her face with her sleeve. ‘Not yet. They can’t _force_ you back out there, Peggy, you’ve just returned and––‘

     ‘Sweetheart, _why_ are in such a state about this?’ Peggy doesn’t care about Angie’s pride anymore. She’s stronger, and is able to put her arms around the other woman and hold her securely. Angie doesn’t fight back this time. She allows herself to be held, even if her head screams at her that _she_ should be holding _Peggy_. It shouldn’t be this way. ‘Shh, shh. Come now.’

     Angie’s eyes still water with tears. ‘Fuck,’ she whispers, ‘I don’t want you to go away.’

     ‘I’m not. I’m not going away.’

     ‘You said so yourself!’ Angie manages to look her in the eye, face flushed and wet. Peggy wants nothing more than to kiss her silent, but she allows Angie to rant. ‘You gotta be off tomorrow. You gotta report to duty tomorrow––‘

     ‘I’m not going anywhere, though! I’ll still be able to see you in the evening, darling.’

     ‘How long for?’

     ‘I––I can’t answer with certainty.’

     ‘Where will they take you this time, huh? What if you get shot again? What if––what if you, I dunno, do somethin’ _stupid_ , like trip over your damn shoelaces and break your leg?’

     ‘I highly doubt I’ll break my leg doing that––‘

     ‘ _Peggy_! Don’t start crackin’ wise with me. You _know_ what I’m talkin’ about.’

     She does. She does. She does. Peggy runs a hand through her hair. She doesn’t know what to say. How to say it. She’s never had to deal with this before. All of her previous lovers have either been unsympathetic, or fellow coworkers. The only serious partner she ever had was Steve Rogers, but it never––hell, it never came to _this_. ‘Darling.’ Angie sniffles, her sleeve moist from wiping so many tears. ‘Oh, you poor girl.’ 

     Peggy embraces her, gentle. 

     ‘You poor, poor girl. I’m sorry.’

     Angie winces. She’s stopped crying, to her own relief, but–– ‘I ain’t _poor_ , Pegs.’ She sniffles again. ‘I ain’t the one bein’ dragged around everywhere.’

     ‘Listen to me,’ Peggy says, voice stern, so stern, Angie _does_ listen. ‘I know last time was hard. It was hard for the both of us, but we pulled through. We still––we still returned to one another. That’s _some_ comfort, right?’ She raises a brow. ‘I’ve told you before: I don’t intend on leaving you anytime soon. Definitely not now.’

     Angie exhales, exhausted from her sobbing. She shakes her head. ‘Why’d I have to go ahead and fall head over heels for a soldier?’

     Peggy smiles. ‘That was clumsy of you, wasn’t it?’

     Angie bites down on her lower lip. Her eyes fall on the dog tags again. ‘Not my fault you’re such a charmer.’ Her face contorts in pain. ‘Pegs, you’re the only one who–– _accepts_ me. I ain’t met anybody like you before––and I don’t wanna go on without you. When that priest comes over and tries to fix me, I dunno what he’ll do.’

     ‘You don’t need fixing. You are perfect, my darling. Absolutely perfect.’

     Angie’s cheeks develop a heavy shade of red. ‘Stop it, English.’

     ‘No.’ Peggy grins. ‘And if that priest causes you any trouble, I’ll handle him.’

     ‘Oh, yeah? You gonna sock it to him like you did last time?’

     They both remember that event fondly. ‘I may try civil discussion first. I have my limits, however.’

     Angie watches her. ‘Peg? You ever been with a gal before?’

     ‘I have. I thought I had made that clear.’

     Angie shrugs. ‘Can’t be sure with you about nothin’.’

     ‘I’ve been with a couple of women. Nothing too serious. I’ve been with men, as well.’ Peggy’s thumb trails across Angie’s lower lip, moving to wipe a stray tear. ‘I wouldn’t necessarily say that I require fixing, darling. You don’t either.’ Angie doesn’t respond. Peggy places a hand to her cheek, and kisses her lips. They then kiss again. Another kiss. 

     ‘I really like you,’ Angie confesses.

     ‘I really like you, too.’

     Angie’s fingertips brush the corner of Peggy’s mouth. Peggy is so close, so wonderful and loving, and perfect, and then, she’s everywhere. Kissing Angie’s lips, her hands on her body, her waist, her shoulders, her neck, through her hair. Angie nips at Peggy’s lower lip, kissing her and kissing her. She pushes herself into her, kisses hot and open. 

     Then, Peggy’s lips are on her neck. Angie’s breath catches. She gently pulls at Peggy’s hair, arching back slightly to allow her better access. Peggy scatters a trail of tender kisses down her neck, finding Angie’s lips again as her hands spread over Angie’s arms, resting just above her breasts. A warm, welcoming tickle develops between Angie’s thighs; a sensation she finds hard to ignore. She rocks into Peggy, tongue in her mouth, desperate, _desperate to keep her here, here with her_. Peggy must have recognised Angie’s enthusiasm, because her hand is now at Angie’s breast. Angie’s lips retreat from hers to gasp. Peggy stops, looking at her, pupils dilated, but concerned.

     ‘Did you not––?’

     ‘No, I do.’ Angie kisses her mouth. She finds Peggy’s hand and returns it to her breast. Peggy squeezes gently. Angie exhales, suddenly helping Peggy unbutton her cardigan. Their breaths are heavy, intimate, warm, hands frenzied, shaking as Angie’s cardigan slides off the bed. Peggy finds the zip at the back of Angie’s dress, and pulls it down. Her lover shudders, but doesn’t object. She does the opposite. Angie slips the dress off her shoulders, and it slips down to her waist.

     Her skin is free, clear and naked. Peggy kisses her collarbone, the small gap between her breasts. Angie grows impatient, she grows tense, she has to stop for a moment. ‘Peggy.’ Angie feels Peggy’s eyes on her. Peggy has stopped kissing, stopped touching. Angie swallows. ‘I––I don’t really––' Their eyes meet. Peggy looks at her the way she always does: intent and understanding. Angie decides to just tell her. ‘I’ve not done this before.’

     Peggy blinks, nods. ‘That’s okay, darling.’ She kisses the corner of her mouth. ‘We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t like.’

     Of _course_ Angie wants more, but Peggy’s offer just makes her fall in love for the woman all over again. In response, Angie kisses her, hard and wanting. They don’t speak much more after that. They don’t need to. Angie’s back meets the mattress, pulling Peggy towards her as the agent crawls atop. Peggy has done this before, Angie realises, as Peggy effortlessly takes off Angie’s dress. Angie is left in her stockings, and undergarments; and her nakedness, her bareness to Peggy Carter is both thrilling and nerve wracking. Her hands tremble, her entire body trembles.

     They press together, her breasts on hers, Angie’s legs resting carefully at Peggy’s hips. Angie and Peggy share open-mouthed kisses, while Angie’s hands explore past Peggy’s collar. She cups the swell of her breast, the smoothness of her stomach, her palm victim to the rough texture of her bandage. She runs her hand across Peggy's sore bullet wound, and tries to touch her face, but her fingers get caught in the dog tags. Angie isn’t able to move them out of the way because Peggy is now kissing her tummy. Angie lets out another gasp. She knocks her head back against the pillows, and closes her eyes.

     Peggy lifts herself, runs a hand down Angie’s thigh. She leans forwards, kisses Angie’s jawline. Angie turns her head to rest against Peggy's, raising onto her elbows. She's conscious of Peggy’s hand at her bra strap, and she allows Peggy to unclip it. The chill reaches her naked breasts immediately. She looks at Peggy, and wraps her arms around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, until they’re in an embrace of sorts. Their cheeks brush together, lips meet momentarily, ‘Write to me––like last time,’ Angie whispers.

     ‘I’ll write everyday.’

     A lie.

     They both live in it.

     Angie pulls away at Peggy’s blouse, at her top, until they’re skin on skin. Uncovered, with absolutely nothing to shield them. They are vulnerable, open to each other, and it leaves them both struggling to breathe. Angie’s innocence begins to break through. It comes to the point where she has to hesitate, think. Her nose bumps into Peggy’s when they kiss again. One of them sniggers at the awkward touch, possibly Angie, possibly because she’s nervous, because she’s scared and because she never, ever, ever thought this would happen to her.

     When Peggy makes love to Angie, she is _tender_. She doesn’t hurt her. Angie spreads her legs wider, and Peggy grows adjusted to her, and she touches her, touches her, touches her. Angie’s moans and weak cries of her name causing her to throb. They kiss, hard, and Angie pulls back, holding onto Peggy dearly, exclaiming as she reaches her peak. They’re kissing again. For minutes, possibly hours; they lose track of time. Time is irrelevant. Time is nothing. Time is all they have.

     The dog tags are cold on Angie’s skin. She presses her lips to Peggy’s neck, arches her back when Peggy touches her again. She comes fast, and her hands and legs, her heart, are impatient as she sits upright, legs around Peggy’s hips. They rock against each other, push gentle. Angie whispers something in hushed Italian ––‘ _ti amo, ti amo, ti amo_.’–– and the sound of her breaking voice increases Peggy’s need for her. They meet in fiery kisses, fall back onto the mattress again. 

     All that's between them is the bandage tight around Peggy’s body. As well as the two dogs tags which dangle from her neck. And, suddenly, they’re so glaring, so haunting and they _punish_ her. Angie makes love to a soldier who may die the following week, and she makes love to her wholly, completely. They should and should not do this, and it is so right, so not how they imagined, so in sync. Her fingers flutter across Peggy’s sex, and she acts more on instinct, more on reflection of Peggy’s movements. They kiss constantly while Angie has her. Peggy stiffens, digging her fingers into Angie’s delicate waist. 

     ‘You’re so quiet,’ Angie whispers.

     Peggy only kisses her, her hands spreading across the warmth of her back. Bruised and bitten by her father’s so-called love. They continue to hold each other, touch each other, kiss each other, for hours, hours, hours––neither know. It is merely exhaustion, sore lips, the assurance in one another, which covers them under the sheets. They lie facing each other. It is too dark for Angie to see Peggy, but she caresses her cheek, kisses her lips, keeps her close until Peggy falls into slumber. 

     Time ticks. Ticks. It ticks on, unnoticed. Angie’s keeps Peggy close, closer still, until she gives in to her own exhaustion. 


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update! I was feeling generous.
> 
> This story may be split in two, so do expect a sequel. 
> 
> Please follow me on my Tumblr for updates on this story, Cartinelli and rambles about my love for Miss Atwell. My Tumblr username is: wreckofherheart. See you over there!

     Reaching over to glance at her pocket watch, Angie is stupefied to find it is five o’clock in the morning. The sun hasn’t risen yet. And still, Peggy Carter wakes up naturally, and immediately starts dressing. Neither women say a word. Peggy probably doesn’t know she’s accidentally awoken Angie from her slumber. Leaning back on her elbows, the sheet barely covering her breasts, Angie watches Peggy button her trousers, throw on her blouse. Her hair has lost its usual style, now long, let loose, across her shoulders.

     Angie sits upright. Peggy senses her movement, looks over to her, and smiles. ‘Good morning, darling.’ Before Angie can let a word out, Peggy adds, ‘I have to hurry off.’ She tucks her dog tags into her vest top, finishes buttoning her blouse and comes forward to Angie’s side of the bed. ‘I’ll attempt at finding you this evening.’

     ‘You _will_ find me.’ Angie tries to smile, but she can’t. She doesn’t want her to leave. Angie pulls at Peggy’s collar and kisses her. ‘I’ll be at the Automat.’ _Where else_? Angie releases her collar, a gesture that she is letting her go, although reluctantly. Peggy, however, is feeling a little too affectionate, and gives her a kiss of her own. They bring each other in for one more, but the war calls, and Peggy is on her feet again.

     Boots on, Peggy is ready to leave. Their eyes meet, and in the dusky lit room, they feel like the only two people in the world. Peggy thinks that wouldn’t be so bad. Just her and Angie; nobody else. That wouldn’t be so bad at all. If she didn’t have her own duties, she would still be in that bed. She would take Angie out of this house, take her to England, Peggy’s home, and that’ll be that. Simple. Sweet.

     A lovely fantasy.

     They’re not pleased with the lack of conversation. They want to discuss last night, they want to discuss _them_. They want to ask what happens next, even though they know there isn’t an answer. They want to ask so much in so little time, it’s cruel. Angie slips out of bed, pulls on her gown, and takes Peggy’s hand in her own.

     She’s about to guide her downstairs, when they both hear a _clatter_.

     Voices.

     Two men. Peggy doesn’t recognise them, but Angie clearly does for she has stiffened completely, staring at the door in horror. A second passes. The voices are louder. The two men are talking downstairs. One of them has a distinct Italian accent, the other American. Peggy doesn’t have an opportunity to analyse the voices farther. Angie turns to her, pushes Peggy back away from the door until she’s at the window.

     ‘You have to get out, you have to go,’ she whispers frantically, eyes wide, constantly peering over her shoulder in case the door barges open.

     It’s her father, and the priest.

     Peggy’s heart skips a beat. _Jesus_. If they find Angie sharing a room with another woman _at this time_ , the consequences will be brutal. And Peggy definitely isn’t going to give Angie more problems than she already has. To Angie’s relief, Peggy has an idea. She opens the window, and even though it’s a narrow gap, she manages to slip through and step onto the ledge. Angie presses her hands to the windowsill, and swallows hard when she sees the fall. Peggy will have to climb down.

     However, it’s not the fall which scares Peggy.

     Angie is taken by surprise when Peggy tugs at her gown. Her eyes are dark, serious, and Angie sees nothing more than a soldier. A broken, desperate soldier hoping for a better, brighter world. A poor woman who places far too much responsibility on her shoulders, it’s a miracle her spine hasn’t snapped from the weight. She sees Peggy’s fear, her worry, her sadness that she has to leave one of the most important people in her life _like this_.

     ‘Don’t let him hurt you.’ Short, strong words. Peggy kisses her roughly, and parts from her alll too quick. She looks at her, confident and sure of herself. ‘I love you.’ Angie stares, but isn’t able to respond. Peggy is agile. She’s broken in and out of homes before, obviously. Somehow, in less than ten seconds, Peggy has clambered her way down the brick of the flat, and jumped. She lands on her feet and disappears around the corner. 

     It’s up to Angie now. She shuts the window, hides the Schnapps, the two glasses, and shoves them into her wardrobe. Her hand falls to the tea Peggy didn’t drink. Angie brushes her fingers across the china. Peggy didn’t drink her tea. It’s cold. Peggy didn’t drink her tea. It’s barely been touched. Peggy didn’t drink her tea. Peggy didn’t drink her tea because of Angie, because she was distracted, because they, because they––

     Angie’s body shudders at the sin she has committed. There is a priest, downstairs, waiting to cleanse her. And she’s––Oh, Christ! She slept with another woman. She slept with Peggy. She slept with Peggy. Angie’s mind screams at her to _move_. In hurried movements, Angie strips out of her gown, pulls on her diner uniform, slumps herself in her chair to look in the mirror. Angie doesn’t spend much time fiddling with her makeup, but she manages to neaten her hair, pushing her hairpins in, before she hears footsteps approaching her bedroom.

     Three knocks. ‘Angela?’

     Angie smoothes down the sheets. Double checks to make sure there are no signs of Peggy’s presence. Then, she dashes towards the door and opens it. Her father stands there, sober, hair combed back, wearing his best suit (and it’s hardly flattering––it’s in desperate need of an iron). Behind him stands a taller man, skinny, wearing a clerical collar and black attire. He smiles, sympathetically, at her.

     Angie decides to ignore him. She looks at her father, stepping back to welcome the two men inside. ‘Have you been travellin’ all this time? You must be tired! Lemme go make you some food.’ It’s a trick to escape which fails. Her father gently grabs her by the wrist. Angie pretends she doesn’t know what’s going on. Pretending helps. She doesn’t want to think about what will happen, she doesn’t want to think that Peggy has abandoned her, and now she must face this all by herself.

     But she will. And she can.

     At least––at least somebody out there loves her _for her_. At least Peggy loves her.

     She thinks about her kisses. That’s when her father speaks to her, voice soft. He speaks Italian, and Angie doesn’t understand why. The priest won’t know what he is saying, but she agrees to converse in their first language. Her father mentions her “disability”, and that he has found the right man to cure her. He then comes forward, rests his hands on her shoulders, assures her that it’ll all be fine. He’ll make sure of that. And, afterwards, he gently encourages his daughter into an embrace. 

     It doesn’t occur to Angie that he will leave this priest and her alone. Not until he lets her go and makes his way for the door. Finally, Angie looks up at the man who will supposedly cure her, fix her, make her stop loving a woman who is the only person to ever love _her_. Angie’s throat narrows. The door closes. And, suddenly, the room she and Peggy made love in is haunting, ugly, and she is hated.

     This home is no longer home.

 

 

 

     A waitress she hasn’t seen before serves her. Peggy asks for Earl Grey. The usual. The waitress raises her brows. ‘Oh, sorry, we don’t have that anymore.’ She shrugs. ‘Guess no one liked it. Think there was a customer before who used to, but–– _Anyway_. Uh, we have normal tea, if you want?’ 

     Has it been that long? Peggy frowns, and doesn’t answer straightaway. The Automat have stopped serving her favourite tea because the only customer who drank it stopped appearing. Until now. Peggy nods. ‘Yes. Anything you have will do.’ She doesn’t sit at the front. Peggy goes for subtle, and subtle is essential currently. She sits at a table in the furtherest corner of the diner, and reads a lengthy newspaper while she waits for her tea to arrive. 

     She’s not reading. More, hiding. Possibly self-conscious, she’s not sure. Regardless, Peggy isn’t _herself_. Today has been challenging. Not only has Angie been on her mind all day, but reporting back to duty was no friendly business. She’s also quite tense about the fact that Howard Stark contacted her earlier. What about, he refused to say, but was very keen on meeting her in the next couple of days.

     When her tea arrives, Peggy peers over her newspaper, and searches for Angie. She’s nowhere to be seen. Peggy starts to worry. Before the waitress leaves, Peggy asks, ‘Excuse me, but may I ask about a lady who works here? I have a message to deliver from a friends of hers, and I can’t seem to find her. If memory recalls, her name is, uh, Allice––or Ann––something like that––'

     ‘You mean Angie, right?’

     ‘That’s the one.’

     ‘Yeah, Angie’s here. I think she’s on her break now. D’you want me to give her the message?’

     Peggy smiles politely. ‘Oh, don’t let me trouble you. I’m sure you have enough on your plate right now. I’ll wait until she appears.’

     ‘Okay, honey.’ The waitress smiles in return, and walks away.

     Assured that Angie _did_ survive this morning, Peggy leans back in her seat and continues to pretend she’s reading her newspaper. Every so often, she lowers her paper to sip at her tea, and look to see if Angie is off her break. A silly thought enters her mind: does Angie _want_ to talk to her? After confessing she loved her––something Peggy can’t seem to shake off––did she startle the woman too much? 

     Peggy flips over the page. 

     What about that priest? What has he said–– _done_ to her? Peggy swallows. Imagining whatever happened between Angie and her priest is too much to bear. Oh. _Oh_. Peggy shouldn’t have slept with her. How taunting. How foolish. Peggy isn’t the type to sleep with whoever and wherever. She doesn’t do that. _But Angie isn’t whoever._ Angie is _not_ whoever. There is nothing to regret, nothing to fuss about. 

     Peggy finishes her tea. She asks her waitress for another.

     From what she remembers, Angie was _very_ enthusiastic about it all anyway. Peggy’s memory is vivid of their time together. Their first kiss, and how everything spiralled after that. The way Angie held her, touched her bullet wounds, lay back for her, whispered her sweet Italian words, moaned and softly cried her name––Peggy feels her cheeks redden, clears her throat, and tries to ignore the throbbing sensation building below her abdomen. 

     Angie isn’t _whoever_. That’s for certain.

     ‘Oh, I can’t believe it!’

     Peggy can recognise that “gee-whizz” accent anywhere. She internally cringes when she looks up to find Dottie beaming down at her. ‘Well, I never,’ she folds her newspaper, and tries to pull a smile as Dottie sits opposite.

     ‘I’m so happy I found you! After what happened, I was so worried about you! Tell you something, Peggy, you’ve been on my mind constantly since. I’m pleased you’re okay. You are, aren’t you?’

     ‘Yes, quite.’

     ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

     ‘Indeed.’

     ‘I’ve been touring the city. Thinking of other places to go, but, well, neither of us have time for that. When the war is over, we should tour as many places as possible.’

     Peggy raises her mug of tea. ‘That sounds delightful, Dottie.’

     ‘So, you’re not waiting for anybody, are you?’ Dottie cocks a brow. ‘I sure hope I’m not disturbing a date.’

     Peggy chuckles. ‘No, no.’

     ‘Alone? That makes two of us, then.’

     Peggy searches for Angie. She still hasn’t appeared. Her heart sinks. Oh, God. Is she okay? Peggy _has_ to see her. She’s desperate to see her. Is Angie _okay_? Dottie is watching her, and when Peggy meets her gaze, the blonde smiles angelically. 

     ‘Are you hiding something, Peggy?’

     ‘Not exactly.’ Peggy straightens in her seat. 

     ‘I bet you’re full of secrets.’ A shadow of an emotion passes her eyes. Peggy isn’t able to identify it. Dottie is smiling again. ‘Do you have any plans these next few days?’

     ‘Yes, actually. Quite a few. Hopefully, I’ll meet an old friend of mine soon.’

     ‘Has there been a problem?’

     ‘Who knows?’ Peggy shrugs. It’s all an act. She’s being playful, and yet she is _not_ in a playful mood. ‘And you? Any plans?’

     ‘Quite a few,’ Dottie says, and Peggy doesn’t know if she’s mocking her. The blonde leans across the table, her eyes full of excitement. ‘We should meet more often, Peggy! I think we have a lot to discuss.’

     ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure we’ll really hit it off.’

     ‘So?’ Dottie raises a brow. Her smile has disappeared. ‘Where is your favourite place to meet? I think I should treat you to something nice, after all of your hard work.’

     ‘I beg your pardon?’

     ‘Oh, lighten up, Peg! Give yourself a little fun.’ Dottie rests her hand on Peggy’s. ‘I know a few great places around here––'

     ‘Can I get ya anything, miss?’

     Dottie is apparently irritated to have been interrupted. She slips her hand from Peggy’s, and focusses her attention on the waitress. Peggy doesn’t. She recognises Angie’s voice, and her presence is like fire. _Fury_. Peggy doesn’t look as far as the notepad in her hand, gripped so tightly, Angie is causing dents in the paper. ‘I’ll have what my friend is having,’ Dottie says, gesturing towards Peggy. ‘Would you like another?’

     It takes a moment for Peggy to realise she’s being spoken to. ‘Oh, I––'

     ‘Yes. _Would_ ya like another?’

     Now Peggy feels confident enough to look Angie in the eye. Angie's jaw is clenched, and her expression is mostly disinterested. But the bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, and Peggy does not appreciate it.  Peggy notices the red mark on her neck. She has been slapped. Peggy’s stomach _boils_. _Angie is hurt_. ‘I would, thank you,’ she turns to Dottie, urgent to distract herself from Angie's new injury. ‘What were you saying, sorry?’

     Angie walks away, her elbow “accidentally” knocking into Peggy’s shoulder. Dottie doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I was saying I should take you to a few places I’ve seen around here. I wish I brought my map with me––' Peggy averts her gaze to where Angie is preparing their tea. Peggy can see that red mark from where she sits. A harsh, scarlet colour.

     Something hurts.

     Really hurts.

     Peggy feels hollow. Empty. Almost lifeless… she should have been there… she should have stayed… she should have faced her father… she should have… she should have held Angie tighter, told her over and over again _I love you, I love you, I really, truly, love you_ … but she didn’t… of course she didn’t… not Peggy, not like this, this is all too fast, all too blurred, it’s so damn confusing, and Angie is acting so passive aggressive and wonderful and just, the poor, poor girl––

     ‘ _Hello_? Peggy?’

     Dottie waves a hand over Peggy’s line of vision, startling the agent. ‘Oh, sorry.’ She turns to her. ‘How rude of me. I haven’t been sleeping well recently, and I tend to drift off. I apologise.’

     ‘Hey, it’s fine. I get it.’ Dottie is still her chirpy self. She pulls back her sleeve to look at her watch. ‘Oops. I think I’ve babbled on for too long––'

     ‘Dottie, please don’t think I was ignoring you––'

     ‘Peggy, don’t be silly. I simply have a prior engagement which I forgot about.’ She hands over a five dollar bill. ‘For the tea. Good night.’

     ‘Thank you,’ Peggy watches Dottie stand. ‘Farewell.’

 

 

 

     Unbeknownst to the agent, Dottie lingers in the doorway, and walks out of the diner when their waitress––Angie––returns to their table. Dottie’s eyes remain on the two as she walks past the window. She can recognise the young girl’s body language easily. Ah. Children. They’re so innocent, and easy to read. Angie is young, sweet and delicate, and Dottie smirks to herself, vanishing from sight. Her assumptions about Miss Carter were correct, after all, but it’s not necessarily her curious love life Dottie is interested in.

     She knows the “old friend” Peggy is meeting is, in fact, the infamous Howard Stark. And while Peggy may pretend she doesn’t know his reasons for contacting her, Dottie knows of them too. A prized piece of technology has gone astray, now in the hands of idiots who’ll no doubt tamper with the machinery and cause problems. It’s not so much getting the object out of their hands which is Dottie’s main aim. She also needs to _own_ it. Her Handler’s request is clear, and her Handler has also advised her to focus on Margaret Carter. She must get to the object through her. 

     Kill the woman once the object is in hand.

     Now that she has a target, Dottie can get to work. 

     Hopefully this Angie is as obvious to her as she is around Peggy.

 

 

 

     ‘She was pretty.’

     ‘Don’t start.’

     ‘I’m sorry if I interrupted anythin’, English.’

     Peggy has had enough. She ignores her tea, shoves the five dollar bill into Angie’s hand, and says through jarred teeth. ‘We need to talk.’ She searches the diner in case anybody is staring. No one is. ‘What happened this morning?’

     ‘I––' Angie rolls her eyes. ‘I’m _workin_ ’.’

     ‘So am I. You’re a woman: multitask.’

     ‘I don’t wanna talk about it here, Pegs.’ Angie shoves herself out of Peggy’s grip. There’s guilt in her eyes. There’s fear. There’s a mixture of emotions, and Peggy isn’t able to read her as well as she usually can. 

     Peggy softens her expression.

     ‘Darling, I ask because––'

     ‘I’ll tell ya, okay? Just––not _now_.’ Angie looks away when a waitress passes them. Once she’s out of earshot, Angie turns to Peggy again. ‘Can ya wait for me? My shift finishes in couple a’hours. I––I don’t wanna––' She’s stuttering. She’s panicking. She hates how Peggy makes her all flustered. ‘We need to talk about it somewhere private.’

     ‘Agreed. I’ll leave and return around the time your shift ends––hopefully that will cause less suspicion.’ Peggy doubts that, but what else can she do? She cares too much for Angie to ignore the mark on her neck. _And that's it: she cares too much. Too, too much_. Peggy shoves on her trench coat, tries to ignore the swift pace of her heart, and steps closer to Angie. If they weren’t in public, Peggy would have kissed her, hugged her; _she would have kissed her_. ‘Take care.’

     ‘Not as if I can go anywhere,’ Angie mumbles. 

     ‘I’ll see you soon,’ Peggy confirms. She brushes her hand across Angie’s as she walks past, through the door and out into the night. 


	11. 11

_When she’s sixteen, she is terrified._

_She begs to God not to cast her down to Hell. She begs, begs, begs. I am a good girl, she’ll say (she’ll promise), I am a good girl, I swear. Daddy tells her to pray morning and night. To be thankful for God and the beauty he has done to this world. Be thankful for God for your family, your friends, and your purity. And do not,_ **_never_** _, tarnish your purity with_ **_sin_** _. Daddy does not like sinners. He does not understand sinners._

_One afternoon, he kisses her cheek, and calls her his little angel._

_That she has always been his favourite. That he has always preferred little Angie over her wretched brother. He loves, loves, loves her and he honestly––honestly––didn’t mean to hit her last night. Oh, he says, oh, how stupid and drunk I was. I have done bad things, and you will do bad things too, little angel, but together, we make a happy, harmonious family. Together, we will repent our sins. Together, we are_ **_good people_** _. Ain’t that right, baby girl?_

_It is the confession boxes she hates._

_They scare her, but they don’t scare her as much as the Lord scares her._

_A priest, on the other side, calls her a child. God’s child. He refers to her as one of them. He sees her as somebody good as well, just like Daddy does, but he is wrong. He’s so terribly wrong, and she can’t speak. She’s trembling too much._

_She has had awful, perverted thoughts._ **_Wrong_ ** _thoughts. Sinful, twisted thoughts._

_And she kissed––_ **_she kissed another woman_** _. She kissed a woman. Oh, Christ. Angie scrunches her eyes closed. She liked kissing this woman, her friend, she liked kissing her. It felt nice, and it felt_ **_right_** _. She knows, now, it was a very corrupt thing to do. God must be so disappointed and angry with her. Angie doesn’t want to go to Hell. She doesn’t want to burn for Eternity, she doesn’t, she doesn’t, she doesn’t, because she_ **_is_ ** _a good girl, she is Daddy’s little angel._

_The priest is patient, and his voice is soft._

_Finally, Angie finds her voice, shaking. ‘I did somethin’ bad, Father. I did somethin’ really bad, and I don’t want Daddy to find out. He’ll be real ashamed of me if he finds out.’_

_‘What did you do that was so bad, child?’_

_‘If I tell ya, you mustn’t be mad at me. Please.’_

_‘Ah. For it is not my place to be angry at you. Only God shall cast his judgment on your actions, but here, sweet child, you may receive penance.’_

_‘Maybe I don’t deserve penance, Father.’_

_The priest doesn’t reply. Angie inhales._

_Daddy doesn’t know she’s here. He thinks she’s gone to meet friends, to gossip and tell stories about boys. But, Angie has never enjoyed gossiping about boys. She never really understood_ **_why_ ** _they had to talk about boys. She likes boys, she does, and they’re really comfy to hug, and she’s friends with lots of boys, but, but––but she doesn’t_ **_like_ ** _them the way girls like them._

_And, she really didn’t like it when Tommy tried to kiss her last week._

_That upset her a lot. He just wouldn’t stop, he just wouldn’t get his nasty hands off her, and his mouth was all over her. It was gross, and it still makes her shudder. Boys can be so rough sometimes; why do they have to be so rough?_

_Angie swallows, and looks down at her hands. ‘I got a friend who thinks me funny.’ Her lips twitch. ‘She’s mean to me sometimes. She calls me horrible things, Father, and I never really got it until now.’ Angie furrows her brows. ‘She’d push me, laughin’ at me––callin’ me “abnormal”.’ Her lower lip quivers. ‘I don’t like her very much no more.’_

_‘Why does she call you “abnormal”?’_

_Again, his voice is soft, sympathetic. Angie sighs heavily, and her eyes start to sting. She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. Her heart is thumping, loud in her ears, and she’s afraid the priest may hear it. May hear her fear, her guilt, her confusion._

_When she confesses, the priest stiffens, and the entire Church quakes in her chilling words._

_‘I think I like girls, Father. I like girls more than I ever should.’_

 

 

 

Clutching Peggy’s hand for dear life, Angie directs her out of public eye. Both women remain hidden in a dark alleyway, the ground beneath them wet and cold. No one spots them; they are unnoticed, and that’s exactly how Angie wants it to be. They _must_ remain unnoticed, because she is trembling in her dread. It has been a long time since she’s felt _hunted_. Preyed upon by her own Church.

They’re right, they’re right, they’re right. They are _right_. Angie is _broken_. She has been broken for as long as she can remember, and no matter how hard she prays, how many times she tells God she is truly very sorry, Angie never wakes up fixed. Is this God’s form of punishment? Taunting her with the very thing which makes her such a sinful woman. Is Peggy God’s form of punishment? Did God deliberately dangle Peggy in front of her, to tease her, to seduce her, to force her to sin again?

Angie hates herself for thinking that.

Peggy is not a punishment.

Peggy is _wonderful_. Everything she could dream of. Peggy is beautiful. Peggy is intelligent. Peggy is strong. Peggy is proud. And Peggy _loves_ her. How–– _how is this wrong?_ Angie just doesn’t understand, and she just doesn’t know what to do. Pressing her back against the wall, Angie wraps her arms around herself, still dressed in her diner uniform, pale and upset. The sore mark on her neck glares. A handprint. 

‘I don't think it’s wise for us to see each other anymore,’ she stutters, but her eyes scream otherwise. She can’t bear the idea of Peggy leaving her. She doesn’t think she can handle that, but what other choice does she have? 

Of course Peggy is having none of it. ‘Don’t speak like that.’

Why–– _why_ does she sound so _calm_? So gentle and _calm_. Does Peggy not understand the risks they are taking? Does she not _understand_? 

Angie tenses when Peggy comes closer. She wants her closer still, but she also wants her to stay away. _She doesn’t know what she wants anymore_. 

‘My darling, will you please tell me what happened between you and the priest? I really must know.’ Her eyes linger on the red mark. ‘Who did that to you?’

'N––No one.’ Angie looks away.

Peggy doesn’t reply straightaway. She reaches out and caresses her cheek with the back of her hand. Angie’s eyes flutter closed momentarily at the touch. All she wants to do is cling onto this woman, and beg her to stay. ‘I was worried.’ Peggy’s hand slips back to her side. ‘I was worried about you.’ She exhales, ‘I still am.’

‘I really wish you wouldn't, Pegs. You’ll grow greys.’

‘That I can live with.’ She cocks back her chin, exhausted, pained. All sorts of emotions clashing through her. ‘What I can’t live with is––' She can’t stop looking at that huge, red mark on Angie’s delicate neck. ‘––Please. Trust me. Whatever you tell me, I will not share to anybody. I need to know what happened. I need to know who _hurt_ you, darling.’ 

And, suddenly, Angie witnesses something which has never happened before in her entire life.

Somebody cries _for her_. Somebody is upset _for her_. Somebody sees and _feels her own pain_. Somebody _emphasises_ with her. Somebody _understands_ her, and it’s too much, oh, God, it’s too much. All Angie needs to see is Peggy’s agonised expression, for her eyes to drown in furious tears, and it’s enough to break Angie’s heart.

Angie is always quiet when she sobs. She has taught herself to cry silently, in case she’s caught. 

But, this time, she has to cover her mouth with her hand to stop herself from wailing. It all falls apart; everything. Everything she’s bottled in, everything she’s allowed to weigh down on her head, everything that has tortured her for years. Hiding _herself_ away from society, forced to hate _herself_ because of society, forced to not fall in love––Angie’s body gives in, unable to hold itself from the impact.

Watching Peggy crying, for her, _watching her cry at all_ , crushes her. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, for the hundredth time that day, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Peggy, I’m really sorry!’

‘Don’t. I don’t want you to apologise for anything.’ 

Their hands are on each other, fingers gripping into their uniforms. 

‘I––I didn’t tell him ‘bout you or what ‘appened last night, I couldn’t tell him. But I think he knows, I dunno how, but I think he knows and, and he said––he said so many things to me, threatenin’ me, tellin’ me God is mad, that his rage will consume me, and I––I’ll live in sin for the rest of my life and I ain’t his child if I don’t get fixed––‘cos there’s somethin’ wrong with me, there’s somethin’ really wrong with me.’

Peggy has to hold her breath. More tears pour, and she doesn’t stop them. She listens, listens, even if Angie’s words horrify her. Her hands tighten, and she _clings_ to Angie so tightly, she may leave marks in the woman’s flesh. But Angie doesn’t care, she needs her to cling to her, to touch her, she needs her close.

‘I gotta pray, I gotta pray and ask God to forgive me, to help me. If I don’t get fixed soon, Pegs, they’ll take me away. They’ll take me to some hospital where they’ll fix me, and––and I hear stories about these hospitals, and what they do to ya.’

‘I won’t let them take you away.’

‘Pegs, he’s serious. He’ll rat me out, he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I’m locked away.’

‘I _won’t_ let _anybody_ take you away.’ Peggy jars her teeth. ‘Don’t you _dare_ say you need to be _fixed_. You do _not_ need to be fixed. There is nothing _to_ fix.’ Peggy no longer sheds tears for Angie, but her fury, her rage, is a fire. A bursting, explosive fire which singes anything and anyone in its path. ‘Now, what did I say? Say it. You _don’t_ need fixing.’ Angie winces. ‘Please, you must believe me, sweetheart. You _don’t_ need fixing.’

Angie tries to repeat Peggy’s words, but something stops her.

Peggy holds her hand, and squeezes. 

‘You don’t need fixing,’ she whispers, the fire beginning to calm. ‘You don’t need fixing.’

‘I––I don’t––I don’t need f––fixing.’

Peggy nods. ‘That’s right.’ 

‘I don’t n––need fixing.’

Peggy kisses her, soft, as always. Angie grabs her lapels, and they move into each other, lips barely touching. And they remain that way for a while, to catch their breath, to calm down, to feel safe and content in only each other’s company. The two are undisturbed, hidden in their own shadows. Eventually, Angie’s heart slows, and she presses her forehead to Peggy’s, running her hands through her hair.

Within damp walls, and unforgiving darkness, they find their own forgiveness. They rest in each other. Keep the other close. 

 

 

 

_‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned.’_

_‘What sin have you committed, child?’_

_Peggy fiddles with the crucifix in her hands, dangling from a chained necklace. She isn’t angry. She isn’t scared. She isn’t anything. She feels_ **_nothing_** _, and, it’s about bloody time. It’s about bloody time she felt nothing. Finally, she can confess, ask Father to give her penance, and she will not shake. She will not tremble. Suddenly, God no longer frightens her. More accurately, the Church’s God no longer frightens her, for God is her ally, her true friend, the only entity who’ll forgive her for what she has done. And for what she will do again._

_Immediately, she reconsiders voicing her sin._

_She will at some point._

_      Just not right now. _

_Right now, she needs someone to listen, to not speak and just_ **_listen_ ** _to her. Because her sister doesn’t listen to her anymore, her aunt doesn’t_ **_want_ ** _to listen to her anymore. They don’t listen to Peggy. Not anymore._

_‘Have you heard the latest, Father?’ Peggy queries. ‘Our neighbour tends to talk too much. She enjoys talking about other people. A gossip at heart. Are you familiar with them, Father?’ No answer. ‘I’ve never been very fond of our neighbour. She calls me all sorts of interesting names. And, now, my sister has started to join in. A very fun game.’_

_‘What names?’_

_‘Oh. Mad Maggie.’ Peggy smiles. ‘My sister likes that one. There are many more.’ She sighs. ‘Crazy Peggy. Bloody Margaret.’ She chuckles. ‘Very original.’ She lifts the necklace, watching the crucifix twirl. ‘Her boyfriend visited the other day. He upset me, Father, and he deeply upset my sister as well.’ Her left eye twitches. ‘He called her horrible names, he kept slapping her, kicking her, shouting at her and then… and then, he turned to me.’ Peggy lowers the crucifix. ‘He turned to me, and looked at me in such a––_ **_disturbing_ ** _way. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, Father. I didn’t like the way he looked at me one bit.’_

_‘What happened?’_

_‘He came over to me; swore to do awful things to me.’_

_‘Like what?’_

_‘And I… well, I simply couldn’t tolerate it.’_

_‘Tolerate what?’_

_‘So, when he grabbed for me, I punched him. I punched him so hard, I must have broken his jaw. You should have heard him scream, Father. He screamed so loud, I’m certain the entire street heard him. Neither he or I were finished, though. While my sister looked on, terrified, I let him grab at me again.’ Peggy clenched a fist. ‘Poor fellow. He failed to notice the knife in my hand.’ Peggy stops. ‘I did not kill him, Father. I swear.’_

_‘What did you do?’_

_Peggy breathes, stares at the crucifix, splattered in dry blood._

_Her scarlet cross._

_‘I cut off the one thing that makes him a man.’_

 

 

 

The significant difference between Peggy and Angie’s apartments is the temperature. The temperature of Peggy’s apartment reflects very much who she is: warm. Upon stepping inside, Angie feels considerably more at ease. The glaring eyes of men and women do not penetrate her here, but she knows, whenever she is around Peggy, danger cannot find her. It’s one reason why she enjoys Peggy’s company so much.

She doesn’t make herself at home, even though Peggy insists she should. Peggy pulls off her trench coat, slinging it over the back of her chair, and elegantly enters her little kitchen to flick the kettle on. Angie unbuttons her own coat, but leaves it on, uncertain whether to stay or leave. Daddy will expect her home soon, and he has _much_ to tell her (and he has much to _do_ to her as well). Subconsciously, Angie brushes her fingertips across the red mark across her neck. It still stings.

‘Would you like something to nibble on?’

Angie smiles. She can never get enough of Peggy’s British ways. ‘Depends what you got, English.’

‘Uhm.’ Peggy is silent for a moment while she searches her cupboards. ‘I have biscuits.’ Not incredibly appetising. ‘How about some toast?’ Peggy reappears from the kitchen doorway. ‘How hungry are you, dear?’

‘Really not that hungry,’ Angie replies, rubbing the back of her head.

Peggy sighs, unconvinced, and returns to looking through her cupboards for something edible. ‘I actually have a few scones. Do you like scones?’

‘Scones?’

‘They’re quite like cakes. They _are_ cakes, per se.’ Angie follows Peggy’s voice into the kitchen, and leans against the wall, watching her girlfriend fondly as she retrieves a packet of what look like white, puffy biscuits wrapped in clingfilm. ‘With raisins. You’d usually spread jam and cream over them. They taste delicious. Are you willing to try?’

‘I like sweet things, so, yeah. I’ll try.’

‘That’s the spirit. Now, I hope I have cream, otherwise…’ Peggy trails off, opening her fridge door. She pushes aside a few items, and reaches further in to take out a tub of cream. ‘Would you like tea with your scone?’ 

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course not.’

Angie cocks a brow. ‘You don’t dip the scone in the tea, do ya?’ She grins. ‘I know you English like to dip your biscuits into ya tea.’

Peggy cringes. ‘Not me.’

‘Oh. Right. Every English person, _except you_.’

‘I don’t like the crumbs.’ Peggy turns to look at her, and gives her a little smile. She approaches the kettle when it’s boiled, takes two mugs, teabags, and pours water into each. ‘You’re free to dip your scone into your tea, but I highly recommend that you _don’t_.’

Peggy returns the kettle, pulls open a drawer where her cutlery is. She takes a teaspoon, and is about to remove the teabags. Peggy stops. Angie is pressed to her back, her arms around her waist, cuddling her. The teaspoon slips from her fingers, tapping the side of the mug. Angie isn’t trembling anymore, but the events that have happened to her today have been traumatising, and Peggy is afraid she may not recover entirely.

Their tea is forgotten. 

‘I wish I could do this everyday,’ Angie confesses, voice quiet. Hushed as if they are being watched. ‘Be with you. Every day.’ Peggy starts to feel weak. She has had the very exact, same thoughts. If only it were that easy. ‘Drink tea and eat scones in the mornin’ with ya. That wouldn’t be so bad.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I don’t want anythin’, Pegs. Just yourself.’

Carefully, Peggy takes Angie’s hands, removing them from her waist in order to see her properly. Face-to-face, Peggy wonders what that must be like: to live with Angie, to wake up to her every morning, to kiss her good bye before they hurry off to work. She wonders a life with Angie, after the war.

‘I could take you back to England with me.’

Angie smiles, sliding her arms over her shoulders. 

‘You could find work there.’

‘With my charm, I could find work anywhere.’ They snigger. Angie’s smile lingers, ‘I don’t wanna give up on my acting, though.’

‘England has its fair share of theatres, dear.’

‘Mm. Or, maybe I should apply for high school education. Maybe you could help me with that. You could help me with the tests.’

‘I’d be honoured.’

Angie moves in to kiss her. She stops. ‘I wanna run away with you,’ she whispers, lips hovering over Peggy’s.

‘I have never heard anything more pleasing to my ears.’ They kiss. ‘I’m afraid our tea may get cold.’

‘Oh, priorities, English.’

‘Exactly.’

Reluctantly, they pull out of their embrace and Peggy returns to finishing their late snack. They sit together, hips touching, and Angie tries her first scone. It exceeds her expectations, which Peggy is pleased about. 

And then, afterwards, they talk about Angie’s failed auditions, the characters she has played, whether or not she’ll actually succeed as Miranda in _The Tempest_. When it’s past midnight, Peggy pours more tea, and they talk about the war, about Peggy's deceased family; they talk until there’s nothing left to say. 

There is a glimpse of a life with Peggy, as she reads yesterday's newspaper at one o’clock in the morning. Delayed on the latest, too focussed on saving other lives. The apartment is warm, cosy, and they are locked in their own privacy. A sort of refuge they have created together. Something good.

Angie takes away the newspaper, straddles Peggy’s hips and kisses her passionately. They embrace, remove their clothes, and rock into each other. The night unfolds between them as they make love until morning.

Quiet. Soft. 

Powerless.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback I received for the previous chapter has left me speechless! You're all incredibly generous and kind, and I cannot thank each of you enough. 
> 
> This story is drawing to a close, and its sequel will appear shortly afterwards.  
> I hope you enjoy!

_Captain America is screaming. It is the most deafening sound to her ears; the most horrifying sound. She wants to talk to him, she wants to comfort him, but her lips refuse to move, her voice is blocked. There is a heavy chain wrapped around her neck, pulling and pulling. The chain strangles her; she can’t talk because she is dying. And yet, she can still hear him, screaming, yelling, and then, finally, he exclaims her name._

_Over and over._

_She cannot see him. She can only hear him, over the transceiver. It crackles. Captain America stops screaming. A sob erupts from the transceiver. He is weeping. He weeps, weeps, weeps, and as he weeps, the chain around her neck becomes looser, looser, looser. Finally, she can breathe. She gasps, collapsing onto the desk. Her neck is bruised, lungs aching from being deprived of oxygen. She winces. Captain America still weeps._

_Desperate, she’s able to talk, but her voice––she doesn’t recognise her voice._

_‘I’m coming to get you,’ she says, ‘I’m coming to get you.’_

_Captain America yells out._

_‘Why do you lie to me? Why do you lie to me?’_

_‘Lie? My darling, I am not lying; I’m not.’_

_‘You’ve given up on me. You’ve forgotten about me.’_

_‘I could never forget about you.’_

_‘You no longer love me. You love somebody else. You’ve––you’re **bored** of me. You don’t **want** me anymore.’_

_‘Please, my love, please stop! Please don’t talk like that!’_

_‘If you love me, then why did you leave me? Why have you abandoned me?’_

_‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’_

_‘How can you do this to me? To **me** , Margaret?’_

_It is her name which sends a shock through her body._

_‘Do what?’ She begs. ‘What did I do to you? What have I done?’_

_‘You believed them!’ The transceiver goes static for a second. Captain America’s voice returns, deep and filled with hatred. ‘You believed I was **dead**. You gave up on me. You **wanted** me dead, didn’t you? This is what you wanted. Me. **Dead**.’_

_Her voice is no longer under her control. She speaks, and yet she doesn’t speak. Somebody else speaks, with her own voice, her own face, her own body. ‘Oh, you poor man. You poor, sweet man. My sweetheart. My darling. My heart. You weren’t supposed to live this life. You willingly walked into the jaws of death.’_

_Captain America exclaims in agony._

_‘And I guided you into the Devil’s mouth.’ The chain tightens around her neck. ‘And I would do it again, Steven. I would do it again.’_

_‘You shatter my heart into pieces, Margaret! Oh, you cruel woman.’_

_Nothing._

_Suddenly, she’s in control of her voice, her words, and she’s quiet. The chain tightens, and she chokes._

_‘Is she next?’_

_Peggy grips the chain._

_‘Will you lead her to her death too, Margaret? Is that what you want?’_

_She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe._

_The chains dig into her flesh. She bleeds._

_‘Is little Angela next?’_

_Murderer, murderer, murderer._

_Peggy screams, tears pouring from her eyes._

_Captain America stops._

_The transceiver loses contact. He disappears. Gone._

_Until he’s behind her, his hands tightening the chain around her sweet neck. Captain America presses into her, kisses her cheek._

_‘Kill us softly with your love.’_

 

 

 

Peggy sits upright. She breathes heavily, fast. Sweat trickles from her forehead, moist down the back of her neck. The dream is vivid in her mind, and her heart pounds, pounds, and, finally, eventually, she realises, yes, it’s all a dream. All a dream. Peggy closes her eyes, wipes a hand over her face, and resigns. All a dream. All a dream.

The morning is cold.

Carefully, so as to not awaken Angie, Peggy pulls away the sheets and stands to her feet. Her bare feet walk across the carpet. She doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t feel as if she’s _alive_. She can’t stop hearing Steve. She can’t stop visualising his face. She can’t. Peggy reaches out for her gown, drapes it over her naked shoulders, and fastens it around her waist.

Peggy leaves the bedroom. 

The kettle is flicked on. She doesn’t switch on the lights. She moves around in the dim light, the rising sun hiding behind her heavy curtains. Peggy picks up Angie’s diner uniform. Thrown aside carelessly in the midst of their lovemaking. She brings it to her face, inhales Angie’s familiar scent, and cuddles the material to her chest. 

_    Is little Angela next? _

Peggy’s heart is torn.

The kettle boils. Peggy neatly folds Angie’s uniform, places it over the chair. When she turns around, she’s taken by slight surprise. Angie watches her from the bedroom doorway, wearing Peggy’s blouse, unbuttoned. There’s a mixture of concern and curiosity written on her face. Peggy tries to smile. She doesn’t smile. There’s nothing to smile about.

Angie furrows her brows. She steps forwards. ‘Aren’t ya comin’ back to bed?’ She asks, quiet, hesitant.

‘I will.’ Peggy swallows. ‘I was thirsty.’

Angie isn’t convinced. ‘Ya talk to yourself in your sleep.’ Neither say anything. Peggy, self-conscious, wraps her arms around herself. Angie isn’t making fun of her, though. ‘It was mostly mumbles, I think.’ Their eyes meet. ‘The name Steve came up a lot.’

‘I see.’ Peggy nods. ‘I see.’

‘D’you have bad dreams a lot?’

‘No,’ Peggy replies honestly. ‘In fact, I rarely dream.’

Angie closes the space between them, and pulls Peggy into an embrace. Instantly soothed, Peggy leans against her, conscious of Angie’s hand running up and down her back in lazy strokes. Peggy’s blouse smells lightly of nicotine, and it’s an interesting mix with Angie’s perfume. 

‘Talk to me.’ Angie whispers. ‘Please talk to me.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Peggy.’ Angie breaks their embrace, but keeps her hands on her arms. Her eyes are wide, and she’s beautiful, pretty and lovely, and her concern is sweet. Far too sweet. Sweeter than Peggy deserves. ‘C’mon,’ she nudges into her playfully. ‘I always go on about my problems. I wanna hear yours. Enough with the stiff-upper lip.’

‘It was only a bad dream.’ Peggy brushes the back of her hand across her cheek. ‘We all endure bad dreams.’

‘Who’s Steve?’

Peggy freezes.

‘You ain’t married, are ya, Pegs?’

‘No. No, of course not.’

‘Then…’ Angie frowns again. She’s puzzled. A little afraid. ‘… who is Steve?’

‘You know who he is, darling. Everyone does.’

Angie blinks. She understands, of course. Angie is smart. ‘You’re not goin’ on about the good Captain, are ya? The one that went missing?’ 

‘Dead,’ she corrects hastily. Peggy averts her gaze. ‘I haven’t dreamt about him at all since his death.’

‘What happened?’

‘I would rather not discuss it.’ Peggy slides her arms around Angie’s hips, ‘I’ll most likely bore you.’

‘I doubt that.’ Peggy kisses her cheek. ‘And I doubt that’s why you’re not tellin’ me anythin’.’

Peggy sighs. ‘There are some things I can’t discuss.’

‘Not with me?’ Angie looks hurt. ‘Thought we were friends, English.’

‘Well, yes.’ Peggy kisses her lips. ‘Very much so.’ She looks down at their intertwined hands. Their foreheads touch. ‘I’m sorry, my love. Please don’t get upset.’

‘I won’t,’ Angie says. ‘I won’t get _upset_.’

‘Angie.’

‘I only want you to talk to me.’ Angie’s voice has softened. She exhales, ‘I can wait, though.’

Peggy smiles, but it’s more sad than happy. ‘I can tell you that Captain America and I worked alongside each other. We were coworkers, of sorts. Although, rumour spread that we were involved.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes.’ Angie is startled by her bluntness. ‘I was there when he died.’ A pause. Brief, but noticeable. Peggy watches her lover, she watches Angie think, and she hopes Angie will understand. She hopes Angie won’t walk away. Angie doesn’t. She stays put, but remains quiet. 

Peggy can feel the chain around her neck.

Steve whispers into her ear: ‘ _Is little Angela next?_ ’

Her voice catches. 

‘I love you, darling. I love you. Ardently.’

‘I love you,’ Angie replies immediately. They kiss. Angie pushes herself onto her, and they kiss again, deeper, longer. Peggy’s warm hands smooth down Angie’s naked waist beneath her blouse, coming around her back, bringing them closer together. 

That was not Steve in her dream. That was not _her_ Steve. That was not the Captain America she knew. Peggy kisses Angie harder, her hands resting around her face. No, no, that was not Captain America. Steve would never hate her for falling in love again. No, no, _no_. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t blame her for his death, would he?

Peggy evidently stiffens in her embrace, which Angie misinterprets as her wanting to move away. Eager (if not hysterically), she tightens her hold on the older woman, caressing her fingers between Peggy’s shoulder blades. She kisses Peggy’s lower lip, her neck, her closed eyelids, and then returns to kissing her mouth. She foolishly thinks about home, about the fact her father is waiting for her, and he’ll know, he’ll know and she’ll be sent away––

Oh, Christ.

‘Please don’t leave me, Peggy. Please don’t go.’

‘I’m not going anywhere without you,’ she whispers, lips on hers, hands dancing across her small body. ‘I’ll never leave your side.’

Angie kisses her feverishly. 

_Kill us softly with your love._

‘I wish the war would end,’ Angie murmurs. ‘So you wouldn’t go away.’ At that thought, she pulls back, avoiding Peggy’s kisses. Peggy doesn’t move, her arms remain locked around her waist. Angie embraces her. A long, fierce embrace, they’re barely able to breathe. ‘When will ya go away again?’ She whispers into her ear, trembling. 

Peggy recounts Howard Stark’s telephone call.

Her heart falls.

Is that her next mission? Does Howard have a job for her to complete? She needs to see him, she needs to talk to him. 

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Soon?’

‘I think so. Yes. We shall write.’

We shall write. Like last time. We shall write. We won’t lose each other. _I won’t lose you too_. Angie feels her throat narrow, and her vision goes blurry. Why, only last night they were so happy, so happy together. Why does their joy, their love, last so short? Angie doesn’t want to go home ever again; she wants to stay here, with Peggy, and only Peggy.

She wants to grow old with her. Belong to her.

There’s nobody else.

_There is nobody else_.

Both women are kissing again. Soft and slow. Careful and so delicate with each other. They kiss as if this may be the last time they ever kiss; and maybe it will be. Maybe it will. Angie exhales, breath rushing across Peggy’s cheek. She presses a palm onto her breast, sliding it down to her tummy. Peggy kisses below her ear, her neck. 

Angie gasps. Her voice shakes. ‘Come back to bed.’

Within seconds, Angie’s back is pressed to the sheets. The blouse slips off her right shoulder as she raises herself to kiss Peggy’s mouth. They push and move into each other, hands caressing their breasts, their hips, cheeks, every part of each other that they can touch. 

Angie unties Peggy’s gown, fingers tickling the inside of her thigh. She’s caught off guard when Peggy lowers herself, kissing Angie’s breast. Angie moans, closes her eyes and arches her back. Her moans heighten in pitch while Peggy’s tongue grazes over her nipple, sucking gently. 

They kiss, tug and pull. Angie’s arms come around the back of her neck, and she clings onto her, holds her. 

‘Don’t die.’

A plea. 

Peggy shudders. She’s heard those two words before, uttered by the man in her dreams. Don’t die. _Don’t abandon me. Don’t make me face this cruel world alone. Don’t stray too far. Come back. Please, please, come back to me._ She tries to speak, tries to promise, she tries, she tries, she tries.

Her mind cannot lie anymore. 

As her words flutter into her ears again, Peggy raises Angie’s hips, runs her hands down her thighs, and moves down to kiss her flower. Angie whimpers, but doesn’t stop her. Peggy is tender still, gentle still, her tongue hot and attentive. She presses her hands into Angie’s thighs, encouraging her lover to relax. Angie knocks her head back, bucking her hips.

‘Peggy,’ she breathes.

She parts her lips, moaning, closing her eyes. Heat rises from where Peggy touches her, and she throbs, pleasure rippling everywhere and all around her body. She’s exhilarated, frenzied, so in love. Angie exclaims, the pressure suddenly unbearable, she feels _close_. 

‘I love you, I love you.’ Her voice tightens, she tenses, exclaims again, ‘Peggy!’ Angie hits her climax, fists tightening around the bed sheets. A tremor in her exhale. She falls into the mattress again as Peggy continues to make love to her. Angie stutters, moans, sighs. 

She gives herself to her, gives every part of herself to her, and Peggy does the very same.

 

 

 

Afterwards, they say little. They make tea, they wash, they dress and they eat. Angie is glancing at the clock every five minutes. Her shift starts shortly, but it’s not her shift she’s anxious about. Peggy, at one point, embraces her from behind, and, for the moment, it is enough to soothe Angie. They don’t know, for certain, whether her father cares or has even noticed her absence.

Then they go to work. Peggy holds Angie’s hand until they are out of the flat. The moment they are in public, no longer hidden in their refuge, they tear their hands apart. Angie walks a step ahead and, together, they make their way to the L&L Automat. It is a chilly morning, but Angie doesn’t notice the temperature; she has far too much on her mind.

A welcoming, warm breeze reaches their cheeks when they enter the Automat. One of Angie’s coworkers greets her on her way in. Angie glances back at Peggy, and they share a little smile, before the waitress turns to the right towards the bar. Peggy intends to stay for a few minutes, just in case Angie’s father _does_ appear. 

She spots a familiar gentleman, sitting in the corner.

He wears sunglasses, and a not-so-discreet hat. The moustache is unmistakable. Peggy blinks. Howard continues to watch her behind his sunglasses, either too afraid to reveal his identity, or too proud. Peggy instantly puts on an act, pretending she hasn’t seen him, or thats she knows who he is. The woman approaches his table, and sits at the table beside him.

She unbuttons her coat, but doesn’t remove it.

Howard cocks a brow. 

‘Do I smell?’

Peggy doesn’t answer. She’s aware that Howard is very much _disliked_ by the state, and she’s not keen on getting caught with him. Howard scrunches his nose, and even goes as far as smelling his own breath.

‘Nope. I don’t smell.’

A waitress appears and takes Peggy’s order. Once she’s gone, Howard heaves a a sigh, stands up and (rather obnoxiously) plops down opposite Peggy. The agent rolls her eyes. So much for her act.

‘You’re hurting my feelings, Miss Carter.’

‘Good.’ Peggy glances at the entrance, then back at Howard. She uses her most fierce voice, which always leaves Howard stuttering. ‘Why the devil are you _here_? You know I can’t meet you in public areas.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ Howard grins nervously. ‘I might've noticed you go here a lot. I won't ask why.' Peggy frowns at him. 'Look, I really need your assistance.’

‘Do you, indeed?’

‘You got my message?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is of utmost importance.’

‘Here is your tea, honey,’ the waitress intrudes, sliding over Peggy’s drink. Peggy thanks her, and the waitress walks away.

She darts her eyes at Howard. ‘Pray tell.’

Howard is relieved with her cooperation. He leans forwards, and lowers his voice. ‘I have been robbed.’ Peggy groans. ‘Don’t fret, Miss Carter. I have it under control.’

‘You could have fooled me, Mister Stark.’

‘I ask you because you are very good at this sort of thing. Plus, if I went charging into a Japanese camp, I’d probably cause mayhem. You know what they’re like; absolute savages.’

‘Excuse me? The Japanese are in possession of your––whatever it is?’

‘Ah, you are smart, Miss Carter.’

‘Are you barking mad?’ Peggy jars her teeth. ‘You want me to, somehow, sneak into a Japanese camp and take back what was stolen from you?’

‘Uh, well, _yeah_.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Peggy, after all I’ve done for you.’ She throws him a look. ‘All right, fine, fine.Perhaps if I told you more about what was stolen from me, you might feel more inclined to help.’

‘You are free to try.’

Howard purses her lips. ‘It is a weapon which can cause mass destruction.’

‘Bloody Hell.’

‘My thoughts exactly. A beautiful invention of my own, and one that has unfortunately landed into the wrong hands. I fear the Japanese may not understand how my weapon works. Actually…’ He frowns, ‘… I don’t think anybody does. I’m a little nervous they might, well, y’know, set it off. If that happened, then it is safe to say that half the population will die.’

‘Oh. A minor inconvenience.’

‘Depends on the way you look at it. Currently, I’m not too keen on dying or causing over a million deaths. I would come along with you, but if I’m spotted, then that’ll wreak havoc.’

‘Am I to go alone?’

‘Oh, goodness gracious, Peggy, _no_.’

‘Who will accompany me on this task?’

‘A friend of mine, whom I met quite recently actually.’

‘You two must be close,’ Peggy mutters, her sarcasm heavy.

Howard smiles crookedly. ‘She’s very able, Miss Carter. I trust her, and, if I recall, you both worked together a few weeks back. I heard about your injury, and the fact you were delayed back in England. I was very sorry to hear that.’

She? _She's_ very able? Peggy rolls her eyes. ‘For pete’s sake, Howard. I refuse to work with one of your so-called friends. I also highly doubt I have worked with anybody who associates with you under the sheets.’

‘Too mean.’

‘Apologies.’

Howard clears his throat. He lowers his sunglasses. ‘We may be familiar under the sheets, Miss Carter, but she’s brilliant. She’s as good as you, if not better. No offence. I really do think you’ll make a great team. I deliberately picked her to help you because I knew she was best suited for the job.’ Howard raises his brows. ‘Come on, Peggy, I need you.’

‘Who am I working with?’

They both hear the sound of high heels. Howard is the first to turn around. Peggy raises her gaze, and watches a long, feminine figure approach their table. She wears a dark trench coat, cutting off at her knees to reveal elegant, shapely legs and black heels. Her blonde, wavy hair passes her shoulders, and her angular face blossoms with a smile.

Peggy allows their guest to sit beside her. Their elbows touch. 

‘Hello,’ Dottie grins, unbuttoning her coat. ‘I can’t wait for us to work together again. We had such a blast last time.’ 

Howard is smirking. Peggy looks between the two. 

And then she smirks herself. 

‘Quite. How lovely it is to see you, Miss Underwood.’


	13. 13

   Once they have figured out a plan to take back what was stolen from Howard, where exactly the Japanese will have hidden it, and how to actually get there, Peggy and Howard leave the diner together. He has to show her photographs of the weapon, instruct her on what to do if the weapon is, indeed, triggered. It shouldn’t be too tricky for somebody like Peggy to understand. 

   Dottie observes the young agent as she walks beside Howard, him leaning into her, whispering further details about the weapon. For a split second, Peggy glances towards the bar, and Dottie feels a smile tug at her lips. The same, young waitress from before is at the bar, pouring somebody’s coffee, but in that split second, their eyes meet. The waitress’s expression is illegible while she watches Peggy and Howard exit the diner. When they’re out of the sight, the waitress frowns to herself, possibly out of puzzlement, or fear, or worry. It’s hard to tell which.

   No one will have noticed the quick glance they shared. Dottie, however, does. She also knows that Peggy is smart, and wouldn’t blow her cover without good reason. Whatever she has with this woman, it’s obviously rocky. She looked at the waitress almost as if to check on her, make sure she was all right. Dottie observes the waitress now. The red, slapped mark across her neck is fainter, but still evident. There is also a faint scar at her cheek––a wound possibly caused months ago. Dottie finishes her tea. Abuse, no doubt at it, and Dottie knows abuse.

   It’s not necessarily Peggy’s interesting love life which Dottie focusses on. She never took Peggy as the queer type, but Peggy isn’t exactly one who plays by the rules. That’s one thing they have in common, at least. Dottie stands, holding her handbag, coat on her shoulders, and walks over towards the bar. She manages to catch the young waitress’s attention, and, like a good little girl, she comes hurrying over. The girl recognises Dottie, and she forces a very convincing smile. 

   ‘Hey, hon,’ she says, ‘Would you like a refill?’

   She saw her with Howard and Peggy. Dottie returns the smile. ‘You are sweet. Yes, please.’ While the waitress brings over a mug and saucer, Dottie eyes the treats on display at the front. ‘You know what? I’m feeling cheeky today. I’d very much like one of those chocolate chips cookies you have,’ she points towards the display. 

   The waitress nods. ‘Sure!’ 

   Dottie continues to watch her, eyes wide with fake friendliness. She understands why Peggy feels so allured to her. A woman like Peggy is stiff, usually stoic; she has a huge job on her hands to protect those around her. This little waitress is charming, very human, broken, in need of saving. Peggy has always been fond of those who need saving. Dottie is familiar with the story concerning Peggy and her dear Captain America. Ah, how the world mistakes who the real hero is.

   Poor Peggy. She tries so hard to be the saviour. 

   If Dottie’s plan goes ahead, Peggy only end up disappointing this fragile girl. Up close, Dottie studies the wound on her neck, on her cheek, and then, while the waitress fetches her cookie, she focusses on her lips. A little moist, pink in colour; a youthful mouth. Kissed by Dottie’s target. She wonders how many times Peggy has kissed those lips, and where else she has kissed her. 

   Her neck? Her collarbone, hidden beneath her uniform? What about her breasts, and further down? Dottie thanks the waitress cheerfully when she’s given her treat. The waitress has small hands, elegant fingers, plain, clipped nails. 

   ‘May I have lemon with my tea?’

   ‘Of course.’

   The waitress turns away in search of lemon. Dottie watches her back, her shoulders as she moves. Sore and bruised.

   Daddy hasn’t been very nice.

   The waitress comes back with three slices of lemon on a small plate.

   ‘Oh, thank you ever so much––' Dottie glances at her name tag, ‘––Angie. Wonderful name.’

   ‘Thanks,’ Angie smiles crookedly. ‘If you need anythin’ else, just give me a holler.’ Her smile wavers, and her brows have furrowed slightly. She’s suspicious of Dottie, but not for the right reasons. Dottie is patient, and drinks her tea, waiting for Angie to eventually approach her. Angie has seen her with Peggy, twice now, so surely she must be suspicious; a little curious at least.

   As Dottie expected, Angie does return after twenty minutes.

   ‘Refill?’

   ‘No, thank you,’ Dottie shakes her head.

   Angie lingers. Dottie watches her as the young waitress turns a little, then faces her again, expression innocent and confused. 

   ‘You’re not friends with Peggy, are ya? I ask ‘cos I’ve seen you both talking to each other sometimes.’

   Then, Dottie puts on her best smile. ‘Yes! You know Pegs, too?’

   It’s the nickname. Dottie deliberately shortened Peggy’s name in order for the waitress to feel even more intruded on. Shortening a name implies something more than mere acquaintances. It implies they _do_ know each other, very well in fact; so well they don’t even refer to each other by their full name. This will cause jealousy, a sense of insecurity, or, if anything, it will convince the waitress that Dottie is on Peggy’s side––that they _are_ friends.

   However, Angie doesn’t respond. Not really.

   ‘Are you a work colleague?’

   Dottie chuckles. ‘We have worked together for a very long time.’

   ‘Is that so?’ Angie cocks a brow. ‘Funny, that. She’s never mentioned ya.’

   ‘Oh?’ Dottie grins. ‘How bizarre. She talks about you all the time.’

   Perfect. A terrible lie, but a cruel and brilliant trick. Peggy opens up to Dottie, not Angie. She keeps secrets from Angie, but not Dottie. There are things Dottie knows about Peggy which Angie doesn’t.

   Undoubtedly, these are the thoughts running through Angie’s little head.

   ‘I do worry about her,’ Dottie sighs dramatically. ‘We were talking earlier, as you saw, and she said she had to go away again.’ Angie visibly tenses. ‘Tomorrow, I believe.’ She looks at Angie, who hasn’t moved. Her expression is illegible. ‘Has Pegs been acting odd around you lately?’

   A clear shade of red blossoms over the waitress’s cheeks. She blinks. ‘Uh, no, not––no, she hasn’t.’

   ‘I guess only very few people can read Pegs, then. We have known each other for a long time, so I’m not surprised I figured out something was wrong.’

   Angie’s breathing has accelerated. 

   Her heart beat is heavy, angry––nervous.

   Pulse racing.

   ‘That’s what she’s like, though,’ Dottie continues. ‘She’s so used to living alone; she doesn’t have many friends. In fact… I think I’m her _only_ friend. That’s what she informed me earlier. She looks at me, and she says, “Dottie, I’m so glad I have you. You’re my only friend. The only person in the whole world that I trust.” I was flattered, as you can imagine, but also concerned.’

   Finally, Dottie decides to react to Angie’s pain. She can hear her pulse, her breathing, and Angie no longer hides her insecurity. There’s a hint of agony in her eyes. _Betrayal_. Uncertainty. She refuses to believe Dottie, refuses to believe a word, but Dottie is terribly convincing. _Terribly_ convincing. 

   Jealousy. Anger. Confusion.

   Dottie has succeeded. 

   She softens her features. ‘Oh, are you all right? I haven’t upset you, have I?’

   Angie raises her brows, relatively surprised she asked. ‘Wha’? No. No.’ Angie exhales, watches a customer approach the bar. ‘I gotta get back to work,’ she mumbles, taking the tea pot with her. 

   ‘Of course,’ Dottie replies pleasantly.

   Her assumption is correct: Peggy Carter is having a romantic affair with this young, poor girl. Dottie smirks. How heartbroken the girl will be when she's informed of Peggy's death. How troubled and shattered and ill she will be, once the news spreads that Agent Carter was killed at the hands of her enemies. And Dottie will return to the States, upset, flabbergasted, overwhelmed, at the death of her supposed best friend. Maybe Howard will be so traumatised, he’ll fall into her arms again, tell her everything and all she wants to know about his marvellous creations. 

   Maybe this girl will warm up to her, too, and inform her about any details Peggy shared.

   Completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that Dottie killed her. Once Howard’s weapon is in her custody, Dottie will point her gun at Peggy Carter, and watch the bullet blast through Peggy’s skull. 

   It will be beautiful. Glorious.

   And Dottie will write her victory in Peggy’s blood.

   When Dottie finishes her tea, and leaves a generous tip for her favourite waitress, the entrance to the diner opens. Dottie turns. A tall gentleman stomps forwards, over to the bar, slams his palms onto the surface, and manages to catch the attention of everybody there. Dottie doesn’t move. She immediately knows who he is. 

   He yells something in Italian.

   He yells in Italian again, and then––

   ‘ _Angela_!’ One customer backs away. ‘ _Dove sei_?!’

   A waitress stares at him from the back of the diner, frozen in place. Dottie is unnerved by his constant shouting. The Angela he calls for hasn’t appeared. And he grows very impatient. Dottie sees the belt tucked into his coat pocket. Her eyes flash back to his unshaven face, his heavy eyes, his angry mouth.

   Now, he is threatening his daughter. 

   Upset.

   Furious.

   Betrayed.

   He spits, Italian words rushed and heated. Dottie understands him. He demands to know why she did not return home last night, where she was, and then, he reveals how sad he is, how _heartbroken_ he is, that she did not return home last night. After inhaling, after catching his breath, he then yells out. 

_I can fix you, baby girl. Let me fix you._

   Dottie places the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. As she expects, Angela immediately reveals herself at those words. Wide eyed, terrified, trembling, with no one to protect her. Dottie considers walking away, but she’s entertained. She watches Angela’s father enter behind the bar. The waitress at the back of the diner exclaims that he can’t go through there, but she’s too late.

   The man is taller, stronger, and Angela is scared of him.

   He grabs her hand, yanks her into him. Promises she’s safe, he’s sorry, and that Father Tomas is waiting for her back home. To fix her. To make her well. To cleanse her horrible, ugly sins.

   One customer cautiously stands. He’s eager to interrupt the commotion, but his wife pulls on his sleeve, stopping him.

   Only a fool would intervene.

   What happens next erupts a gasp from the diner. 

   Angela moves away, furiously pulling out of his grip. He reaches out for her, she dodges his hand, slaps aside his wrist––

   Even Dottie is taken by surprise when his fist bashes into her nose.

   The waitress at the end of the diner screams. The male customer shouts out, cursing him, the wife now on her feet, horrified. Dottie hears Angela’s father speak, whispered, he doesn’t care about their audience. He tells her she’s coming home, she’s been very bad, she’s coming home, he will not let her turn into her disastrous brother.

   Angela is crying. Furious tears pour from her eyes, and blood drips to the floor. Her nose is broken, pretty face damaged, but she still puts up a fight.

   She swears at him in Italian.

   ‘ _Ti odio_! **_Ti odio_**!’

   I hate you. I hate you.

   The belt. Dottie can see the belt. A shiver runs up her spine, and even though this gentleman has nothing to do with her, she can’t help but mirror Angie’s feelings. _I hate you. I hate you_. Angie steps back when he moves forwards, upset that she confessed such toxic words. 

   He tries to grab her.

   Angie spits in his face.

   That is final.

   He starts crying, too. They argue, a short, abrupt argument. Angie, bloody faced, and leaking with tears, barges past him, away from the bar. She exits the diner in quick, large steps and disappears around the corner. Her father doesn’t waste a second to follow her. The door slams shut behind him, and he runs after her.

   The diner is quiet. Silent.

   Dottie follows.

   She walks calmly down the pavement. She can see Angie’s father catching up with his daughter, and, in the middle of the street, he grabs her by her collar, and pushes her against the wall. 

   A by-passer manages to slip out of the way.

   Dottie reaches them. She pulls Angie’s father back, and before he can react, her knee juts into his abdomen, her fist crushes his cheek, and she kicks him to the ground. Angie presses herself further into the wall, looking between the two, and Dottie receives the response she wants.

   ‘What’re you doing?!’ She demands, glaring at Dottie.

   Dottie says nothing, and watches Angie kneel down to her father. He growls impatiently, sits upright, and rubs his sore cheek. Angie stands, looks Dottie in the eye, and there it is. Her defence. Her complexity. This man abuses her, hates her for what she has turned into, but he is all she has. He is her father. Their connection cannot be broken, and even though he hurts her, at least he stays.

   At least he tries to help her. Because Angie needs help.

   She needs fixing.

   Dottie passes Angie a handkerchief. ‘You poor dear,’ she says. Her fingertip lightly brushes across Angie’s broken nose, and, for a second, she resembles the woman Angie tragically loves. She is her. She is her voice, her nature, her passion, her smile. ‘Stay safe, darling.’ Dottie swirls on her heel, and gracefully continues walking down the pavement, until she’s out of sight.

   The waitress is frozen in place, handkerchief in hand.

   Her father manages to stand. His cheek is bruised, and his mouth bleeds. A hand rests on Angie’s shoulder, and he squeezes. 

   ‘Come home, my little angel. I _beg_ you.’

 

 

 

   It’s later, much later, when Peggy arrives at her door. And Angie thinks, _what a stupid move_! What a _stupid_ thing to do. Peggy must have returned to the diner, only to discover Angie hadn’t finished her shift and left early. She must have asked a waitress, she must have found out––somehow––about the scene Angie’s father pulled at the diner. She must have found out.

   Oh, God.

   Angie’s father is in the next room. Peggy cannot be here.

   What upsets Angie most is that Peggy can see her broken her nose. She can see her split lip. She can see her black eye. She can see the blood, sin and death on Angie’s once clean uniform. It is no longer a turquoise colour; now splattered in red, the colour of Peggy’s lips. 

   Peggy wasn’t there. She wasn’t there when Angie needed her most.

   ‘Ya gotta go,’ Angie whispers, already closing the door.

   Peggy places a hand to the door, stopping her. ‘What happened, Angie? Tell me what happened?’ She stiffens, tries to look over her shoulder. Peggy lowers her voice. ‘He’s here, isn’t he? He’s here.’

   ‘Please–– _please_ , I can’t let you come in.’

   ‘Angela, who is it?’ 

   Someone opens the door wider, wraps an arm around Angie’s shoulders, and comes into view. Peggy faces the man who has tortured her lover since the day she was born. He stands a good few inches taller than her, but his height does not scare Peggy in the slightest. Both man and woman look at each other, and immediately a cold, chilling hatred is shared between them.

   Angie swallows, terrified Peggy will attack.

   ‘Who are you?’ Her father demands.

   When Peggy speaks, she is calm, controlled. _Cool_. ‘My name is Margaret. And you?’

   ‘Dmitri.’ He steps forward. Peggy rolls back her shoulders, as if prepared to fight him, but Dmitri does not want to fight. He has no intention to hurt her, but he knows _exactly_ who Peggy is and the damage she has caused. ‘Margaret,’ he says her name carefully, ‘Please leave, and don’t ever come back.’

   Peggy looks at Angie. 

   Looks at her damaged face. Her eyes, drowning in tears. 

   They are trapped. _Torn_ apart. There is a man standing between them, and his voice is gentle, his face is gentle, and––really––he means no harm. He just wants his daughter happy, he wants his daughter safe.

   Peggy is nothing more than a hinderance to her recovery.

   A seducer. A temptress. A catalyst. 

   ‘I depart tomorrow morning. I wish to say farewell to your daughter.’

   ‘Go ahead, then.’ He doesn’t move. ‘And make sure this is the last time.’

   Angie and Peggy look at each other, and everything falls apart. Peggy cannot touch her, she cannot kiss her, she cannot hold her, she cannot nurse her battered face, and a swell of agony crushes her. She can _feel_ her heart splitting in two. She endures the amount of agony Angie has been through. The blows of her priest, the yells of her father, his desperation to fix what she is. Terrified his own daughter be sent away, sent to one of those horrible asylums.

   To burn in Hell. For an eternity.

   If Peggy wants, she can kill him. She can kill him, and it will be a swift job.

   But, why would she do that? Why would she kill the last person on earth Angie is allowed to love? It is not rational. Peggy can’t stay. She can’t protect her. And then it hits. It all hits. Angie does not need saving; she never has needed saving. 

   Until Peggy arrived, she was fine.

   Before Peggy intervened, before Peggy sent her letters, before Peggy made the poor girl fall in love with her, before Peggy kissed her, before _everything_ , Angie was okay. She was okay. 

   As always, Peggy’s presence is destructive.

   For she is not Captain America. She was never Captain America.

   Peggy surrenders.

   She takes one step back, and the floorboard creaks. Angie isn’t able to speak, but her eyes scream–– _plead_. She pleads for Peggy to go, to leave. She doesn’t want her hurt _too_. She doesn’t want Peggy involved. Not after the catastrophe at the diner, not after she was forced to her knees, forced to repent, forced to endure the whip, her deserved punishment for loving another woman.

   Father Tomas promises to fix her.

   He has high hopes for her. Angie is good. Angie is a _good_ girl. She will heal.

   And, at least, Peggy will have Dottie. At least she has her, right?

   To think only this morning, they were together, tangled in their embrace. 

   ‘Good bye, my darling.’ 

   Peggy doesn’t wait for an answer. She can’t take much more. She doesn’t look at Dmitri, she doesn’t give him that pleasure. Instead, her dark, brown eyes hold Angie’s blues, and then she turns away. Angie feels a scream desperate to break from the back of her throat. 

   Clinging to her sleeve, Angie watches Peggy descend the staircase, and she’s certain, _certain_ , she’ll never come back. She will disappear. She will be gone tomorrow, and she will be gone forever.

   They hear the rain outside when Peggy opens the door.

   The _click_ as it shuts.

   Silence.

   Angie collapses to her knees, and bursts into tears. Dmitri hovers over her, sorry, upset, but relieved. He crouches down to her level, raises her chin, looks at her and smiles sadly. Angie twists her face away, holds herself. 

   She hears her words, her writing. The bullet.

_I wait, albeit impatiently, for the day I see your face again._

 

 

 

   Throughout their journey, Peggy has been quiet, eyes void of emotion. She says nothing when Dottie greets her, when they equip themselves with weaponry and resources. She says nothing when they approach the plane, the gun heavy at her waist. She says nothing when she reaches the plane’s entrance, peers over her shoulder, in case, _just in case_ , last night was a dream.

   Just in case it was all a nightmare.

   Just another bad dream.

   And, then, she’s certain. 

   It wasn’t a dream, after all.

   Peggy lowers her gaze. She fools herself in believing this is for the best. This is for the best. She may die on this mission, she may die. And, maybe, possibly, _please let it be so_ , Angie will cope easier knowing Peggy was never hers to lose.

   She wishes her that mercy. She does. She _prays_.

   Once inside the plane, she slams the door shut, takes her seat opposite Dottie, and straps herself in. The space is dark, small. Before the plane lifts off, Dottie leans over, brow raised, a little smile.

   ‘Are you all right, Peggy?’

   It makes her laugh. The question makes her laugh. ‘Quite so.’ 

   She thinks about Angie, about her smile, about her voice, about her eyes. She thinks about Angie, thinks about the violets she forgot to take home with her, thinks about her play, about her love, and she thinks about the now.

   The plane rattles viciously as it charges over the runway, and, all too soon, they’re off the ground, and in the air. 

   Lost in flight.

 

 

 

 

**END OF PART I.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II will be posted _very_ soon, you have my word.
> 
> Every single one of you have been amazing. Your support is phenomenal, and I can't put into words how grateful I am. The reason this story not only has a story to follow, but reached its final chapter, is mainly because of you readers. Do not ever underestimate how much your feedback means to a writer.
> 
> I shall keep you updated on Tumblr regarding Part II. I also intend to update _The Perplexity of Margaret Carter_ soon, as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I truly hope you enjoyed this story.


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